The Last Real Cowboy

I spoke with him last week.  He couldn't speak well, and he was no longer able to swallow food, and it was so clear that there were only days left.  Aunt Jodie had rummaged through the boxes of old photos in the closet upstairs and made copies for us grand kids, I had received them in the mail, wept at the image of my late grandmother, who could have been a silver screen siren, had she not been a battered, neglected housewife of an alcoholic cowboy.  As I flipped through the old photos, most of which I hadn't seen before, I stopped with a gasp at a shot of him as a young and reckless teen, dark and handsome in a rouge and dangerous way, and it occurred to me what an enchanting net he must have cast on my grandmother back then, on so many young girls at the grange dances, at the school sock hops, and eventually the rodeos, and bars.  Called a "dark" German, Hebrew to be sure, but that was all hush-hush for at least two generations before he was born, the little secret that arrived with our first ancestor from Wurtenburg, Prussia.  But goodness, he was a looker, my old grandpa in his day.  And so I called him, just to let him know I thought he was a heck of a lot prettier when he was younger, to rib him a bit, which, with him always translated to love. 

"I hardly recognized you," I lied, nearly yelling into the receiver because I knew he wasn't wearing his hearing aid.  I could hear him laughing, a faint, breath-like panting to let me know he caught the sarcasm.

"Yat," he agreed weakly.  "I suppose."

I couldn't talk long, and he couldn't endure much, laborious as it was to just communicate.  Just long enough to say I'm thinking him, and that I love him.

After nearly three long years of battling prostate cancer, he finally passed this morning peacefully in his bed in his own home.

My earliest knowledge of him wasn't really a face, but an energy.  A stark contrast to Grandma, who was bubbly, goofy, and affectionate, he was sullen, withdrawn, unreadable, distracted.  We four grand kids were careful around him.  He gave us our first horses.  He expected us to work the farm, and had better learn early how to ride, herd, cut, brand, rope, de-horn, and grow beef cattle like everyone else.  But riding with him was fun work.  He was a real cowboy, just like in the movies, and when we rode with him, we were in the movie too.

How I remember him when I was growing up.  Grandma and Grandpa with my dad and aunts in 1980.

I've always loved old photos, the ethereal, haunting images of a moment in history captured in a flash. I love them and hoard them when I can, so my kids can know their roots, the legacy they inherit, and also so I can remember, too.  It's hard to imagine my dad as a little boy with chubby cheeks and pudgy hands, smooth skin, and warm brown eyes like those of my own young sons.  It's even harder to imagine my grandpa fresh in life, even smiling, at the same season in life that I'm in now.

This must have been a wedding in 1956, because my great grandparents are wearing flowers, and everyone is dressed up.  My graceful grandma Luster in the center is holding Aunt Jodie, and my dad is in the back with his arm around Grandpa.    

But when I see him here, in fuzzy black and white images, I can find it around his eyes.  He suffered.  He struggled.  He had deep, damaging wounds.  He didn't have wisdom on his side, but goodness, he had experience.  He was born between miscarriages during the early years of the Depression.  His life was one shaped by strife and hunger.

Grandpa with his firstborn, my dad, in 1954.  

Some of my friends agree, but something happens when you are a mother of boys.  Suddenly, as if by a fragile invisible thread, all the boys in the world are your children.  Especially little ones about the same age as your own or younger, I feel responsible for each of them.  Aaron and I had an experience this summer that spurred us to seriously consider serving in foster care, or even adoption.  We have all this love to share, and there are so many, many little boys who desperately need it.  My grandpa was that little boy.

My grandpa here in overalls, offering flowers beside his older brother Dave and younger sister,  Zelda, in 1940.

I may have never had a relationship with him, but then he held his first great-grandson, Andres.  And I watched in a postpartum haze some profound and cosmic event unfold before my eyes as Grandpa held my brand new son in his arms for the first time:  he smiled.  For me at 28 it was the first time I had seen that man smile.  And for a man who scowled at me as a kid as a both a salutation and warning, he started to call me every week to check on "that boy."  We nurtured a fledgling relationship with Andres as a bridge, and once, well into his fight with cancer, we even talked for over an hour on the phone, and I treasure that conversation with him.  And then just after his 80th birthday this summer, he decided to be baptized, shocking all of us.

I'm so grateful he was able to meet my boys.  I'm so glad they helped him heal whatever had broken him so badly, so grateful that he and I became pals through them.  And while today I'm sad and grieving and missing him already, there is in a wide open field a new peace, and a new life without hurt or grief, regret or shame.  Only endless oceans of the ever-present glow and warmth of perfect and abundant love, grace, and renewal.

Jearl Heitzman, age 9 months, 1934.

Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” Matthew 19:14

Andres' 1st Animations

At 4:10
The Adventures of Calvin is an adaptation from Andres' favorite comics, Calvin and Hobbes, where our beloved protagonist imagines everyone around him as an enemy, especially his mom (now I wonder what Frued would say about Calvin)...and with his trusty sticky darts ("gun"--ugh!  but he is a boy after all!), defends himself against the overwhelming foe!  Disclaimer:  sound effects are more violent than actual video.

At 8:08
The Andres Show is an avant garde piece with postmodernism aspects as well as echoes of classic beatnik elements, and as Andres himself told us, "it's a sing along."  It's fun, creative, and pushes limits of visual storytelling.  So, we encourage you to sing along if you dare!


Book Animation from PORTLAND COMMUNITY MEDIA on Vimeo.

Muck

The summer has been a difficult one from the get-go.  A good one, but difficult for lots of reasons I'm still working through, still choking on.  And today.  Today is one of countless days that I wish I had a mom.  I would call her up, ask about the farm, chat about dinner menus, and share this horrible day with her perhaps as I cry a little about it, wanting her nonchalant laughter to pour over me like salve, a soothing encouragement, compassion from a mother to her daughter regarding this bond we share, this thing called motherhood.  I would ask her many, many questions.   So I slip back into the recesses of my imagination and pick up the phone.  I dial her number, listen to rings, and pauses between rings, and hear myself breathing on the receiver.  And then it's her voice.  Her warm and so familiar voice that is trekked into my most primitive memories.  No stand-in or surrogate will work today.  Some days I'm a mom.  Today I'm a daughter needing one.  Today, like countless others over nearly five years, I just miss my mommy.

Homeschooling: The Journey Continues

My friend Sarah has a pair of jeans that I unintentionally complement her on each and every time she wears them. They fit her perfectly in cut and length, and look great with whatever else she's wearing.  However, if I ran to the store and bought her jeans in my size, I know for a fact that they wouldn't fit me as well as they do her.  They're her perfect fit, not mine.  (I'm still looking for my perfect jeans...another story for another time.)   Thank goodness there's hundreds of brands of jeans to select from.

This is how I feel about contemporary educational options for kids.  I certainly wouldn't tell a family what is best for them any more than I would proclaim the jeans that fit me perfectly would fit others perfectly.  Some families feel quite at home in public school, it marries their values and lifestyle well, and fits them.  It doesn't fit us at all.  There have been times I wish it did, so I could enroll and walk away, showing up to volunteer on Fridays or bring cupcakes for birthdays, or even to just get a break from the rigors of parenting everyday all day long, or dealing with homeschool curricula.  But in the end I have to listen to that still, quiet voice within and go with my instincts.   Luckily for us, it's the best time ever for alternative education.  It's not just public vs. homeschool anymore.  Nowadays you can homeschool, unschool or hackschool.  The options are as numerous as buying jeans, and as confusing.

One friend praises her Sonlight homeschool curriculum.  For three years I've studied Sonlight's approach, and have even interviewed her kids, to see if this angle aligned with our values.  I may have even purchased it had it not been for the $900 bucks a year I would have to fork over.  But now I'm so glad that I didn't commit to Sonlight, even if the money had fallen from the sky.  At the end of the day, Sonlight wasn't a good fit for us either.

Andres' last day of school was Friday.  After a year with the FLEX Academy program, we had plenty of signs along the way that this program of a homeschool/public school hybrid wasn't working for us, and that we wouldn't return the next year.  He cried as he put away dishes after school Friday, lashing out a me, telling me he doesn't have to let go of the things he loves, and he loves the people at his school.  Maybe I was riding the fence when I enrolled him, worried about taking on the whole burden of responsibility for my child's education.  All those years in college studying pedagogy and educational philosophy, history, law, and application according to a public school paradigm has (I confess) skewed my ideas and personal opinions/values on education.  Learning is a science, and the role of school is hone skills and prepare our children for participating members of society.  But how these children participate is lost in the muck.  And for the 8 years I was teaching language arts in public school, I behaved like a pseudo scientist, researching and collecting data from test scores, reviewing my materials and curriculum plans, adjusting for differentiation and special needs and administrative interests, and responding to various studies and trends sweeping the field, always with the outstanding and over-riding goal of...improving test scores.  The student wasn't a whole person with gifts or dreams or spirits (yikes!--remember separation of church and state!?)  The student was a hypothesis.

So I knew what it was like behind the curtain of public school.  When it was my time to choose a path for my kid(s), there was no contest.  Homeschool?  Sure!--as long as I can have a dribble of public school ideals included to keep things fun and interesting, oh, and to "socialize" them, because God knows the only real way kids can be socialized is through public school.   (Is my sarcasm translating?) And it was fun and interesting for Andres at FLEX, he brought home cute projects and made some little friends, but there was a good deal of it not beneficial to his personal growth, or our family's lifestyle and values.  Even the stress of implementing FLEX at home in September was epic, being that it was a convoluted curricula with countless communication fails from his program and an overall lack of support.

No, FLEX is not coming around for 1st grade.  But what was?  I was getting anxious about it, and as I had listened to friends on their own children's educational pursuits, be it public or home, I found that my personal educational philosophy was surfacing for the first time, and not the scripted one I had to memorize for my student teaching application in college, but a real-life one that I discovered in the eyes of my boys, and the invisible future they will live.

I've learned that I don't want my boys to simply participate in society.  Most people do manage to participate in some capacity on some level, despite the degree of education they've achieved, after all we're social creatures, we need each other.  But what I discovered this year is that I wanted my boys to be whole people, and content in life in all circumstances.  Not prototypes, or experiments, or drones, or togs in the system, but whole and content.  I got that far in developing my philosophy when two interesting things happened this week.

1)  My dear friend Rachel and I attended Columbia Virtual Academy's Road Show (open house) where we could flip through textbooks of various curricula they offered through their program.  The nice lady who acted as my guide really didn't know how to help me, and she was floundering when up came Rachel, who is just now wrapping up her 1st grade homeschool with CVA, and shared with me a wealth of helpful and insightful information from the materials she had used this year, to how they implemented them, and what the kids did, how they liked it, etc.  She pointed out several items written by Susan Wise Bauer, a name I've come across countless times via the 50 or so homeschool blogs I subscribe to.   For the first time I was able to look at her work in real life (vs. online) and I loved what I saw.  Bauer aligns with the Charlotte Mason (CM) homeschool method, which I read up on long ago, and shrugged off.  But here is real applicable curricula, laid out clear and easily followed, and I imagined that it would fit us pretty well.  And knowing that Rachel had used it and loved it was the final sign I needed to commit to a plan.

2)  My dear friend Sarah came over yesterday for Raph's birthday celebration (more on that another post!  how fun!) and shared with me some of her thoughts as she deliberated taking her son out of public ed, and going the homeschool route.  She brought up Charlotte Mason again (no surprise...the same names come around and around in this alternative ed culture, Montessori, Waldorf, CM, TJEd, etc...and Charlotte Mason has a vast following, with good reason).  Sarah mentioned Ambleside, a rich site with free curricula and materials, available for the CM method.   It's been years since I read up of CM, and now with some traction under my wheels in the homeschool department, I thought it was time to review her philosophies and see if it came close to my own budding view of things.

Sidebar:  When Andres was one year old, I knew a woman getting her Montessori teacher certificate, and I attended some workshops with her, curious as I was being a public ed teacher about this private school method.  I liked what I saw a lot, but I knew then it wasn't going to gel with our lifestyle or with Andres' personality.  And that particular woman had strong opinions about CM, not entirely positive ones at that, so I never really pursued deeper investigation.  I had been convinced (by that woman) that Doctor Montessori had discovered the magic method to reaching children, and Miss Mason wasn't even a mother, let alone a homeschool mom, and her Victorian-era rationale is out of date, out of touch, and backwards-thinking with diction like child "training."  (Maria Montessori would never dream of condescending to children with language like that.)  And that's the other thing with homeschooling.  For every praise a method gets, there's just as many in the way of criticism, which--while researching what to do with my child(ren)--the pros and cons have been very put-offish and added to my confusion, although it underscores my original point about individualized educational fit based on family needs, lifestyle, and values.

But God nudges.

Here comes Charlotte Mason again in face after six years of me shelving her method.  And this time I thought I had better respond to the nudge and look into CM one more time.  Because as my personal philosophy solidifies, so do the educational goals for my boys.

My family is mixed ethnically, so an all-American or anglo-centric approach isn't appropriate for us.  (That was one reason I shelved CM long ago, and looking so longingly at Montessori's great multicultural method.)  I don't want an overtly conservative, legalistic Christian curriculum that shuns the theory of evolution or fairy tales, although I do desire God and scripture to be not just what we do, but who we are in everything, including education.  I'm not impressed with pre-learner fads, like parents teaching their infants to read and/or memorizing math facts, since there's no evidence at all that these early learners have any academic advantage over students who learn to read at 6 years old (or 8 for that matter), which is what I assume these parents honestly believe (that or that their child is a prodigy), and for my objectives, learning reading, writing or math skills prematurely fails to demonstrate a correlation between that and becoming a whole person, or being content in life as an adult.   I want my boys to be open minded, able to see things from others' point of view in a humble and graceful manner like my oldest friend in the world, dear Shannon M, or my beloved friends, Sarah C and Sarah V, all having challenged me to open my eyes and continue to teach me the fine art of perspective.  I want school to be something that grows us closer as a family, synching bonds, and creating memories.   I don't want to "teach to the test," although I fully realize in this world subjugated by standardized tests they will have to eventually learn how to maneuver through those minefields as well.  I want them to be comfortable in their skin, have ownership of the things which make them unique and different.   And I want their education to include a deep respect for life, art, languages, culture, music, literature, and cultivate profound thinking and ideas.  These are my goals.  Now, how on earth to get there?  Is it possible?

But God nudges.  And in my research today on Charlotte Mason, I was struck by something she wrote to The Times in the early 1900s:

Anyone who wants to teach children needs to decide whether man is just physical, or something more. It can't be both ways, and even the most trivial detail of the school day will line up with one or the other of these two fundamental perspectives. One method is scientific education. The other is humane education. Both methods cultivate the senses and exercise the muscles, but for different reasons, and with a different goal in mind.

I feel that I'm being called down off the fence, and being made to choose.   With my goals and own personal philosophy surfacing, I must nail down a direction, and follow that still, quiet voice within me with heart, courage, and faith.

I don't believe in magic bullets.  I don't believe in one size fits all, utopias, or perfection.  But I feel that choosing an educational path is like jeans.  I think you can find a fit that matches your natural shape, and then break them in so that over time and with wear they curve where you curve, bend where you bend, and fit your beautifully unique form.

Mother's Day

"There are many virtuous and capable women in the world, but you surpass them all!" (Proverbs 31:29, NLT)

For the swollen feet, stretch marks, and other unpleasantries of bearing a human being in the cradle of your your body, for the sweat, pain, and recovery of episiotomies or cesareans while releasing that child from your womb, for the raw nipples, 4 am feedings, slurred lullabies whispered over fuzzy little heads, for remembering to pack diapers, binkies, wipes, burp-cloths, snacks, the pump or bottles, and the tippee cup on every outing, for changing your clothes with grace when stained with spit-up, for all those gag-inducing poopy diapers, or rage-inducing colicky nights, for the tears you wept adjusting, and the tears you wept in unspeakable joy, for the countless boo-boos you swabbed, bandaged and kissed, for repairing that favorite toy, and stealthily tossing the unrepairable ones, for playing the dropsy game ad nauseum, for making peanut butter and jelly or mac and cheese in your sleep, for playing taxi to all the summer camps, softball games, swim lessons, piano recitals, for the beloved heirloom damaged or destroyed, for all the "don't spit in your brother's face!" and "stop pulling your sister's hair!" and "stay in bed!" moments, for installing carseats, loading up strollers, and assembling and dissembling portable cribs in small spaces, for the first steps and first bike ride without your guiding hand, for the sticky stuff on the floors, the stains on the carpet, and smears on the windows, for the Mt Everest piles of laundry, for playing Tea Party or Legos or Uno with a tired smile, for planning birthday parties, sneaking Christmas gifts, and hiding Easter eggs, for all the spaghetti dinner messes, for asking "where are you going?" and "what time will you be home?", for saying "this will hurt me a whole lot more than it will hurt you" and mean it, for the uncomfortable conversations had with teachers or parents involving "really, my child did that?", for brave play dates in the rain, snow, or sweltering sunshine, for all the thankless, unnoticed, glorious, bloody, sweaty, marvelous moments that make you a stronger woman now than you were before you embraced that small body, and clung to it as if a buoy on choppy waters, because in that moment you realized how fragile life is, and that bond is something supernatural, life-sustaining, and galvanizing.  You're a mother.  You're strong, and beautiful, and graceful.  You sacrifice gladly, and pray more than you speak.  You're a warrior and an angel.  You're Mom, Mommy, Mama. 

God bless you, Mom, today and everyday in this, the greatest, most challenging and beloved journey, mothering.

Coming to the Surface

The past month has been obscenely hectic.  We had a St. Patrick's Day dinner with friends and Tia Kissie.  We hosted Easter at our house and the next day housed family from California.  And we visited the lower valley to  place Aaron's beloved Grandma Bea beside her loving husband, Grandpa Joe.  We helped my sister in law celebrate her 40th birthday in Tumwater, too.  To top it off the month has been peppered with bouts of the flu and this week, a cold.  And there has been no semblance of routine or normalcy since before Christmas.  To say it's been exhausting would be a cute misnomer.

We're completely bonkers at this point.  Clinical.  And for my part, I'm ready to check into a respectable institution for the mentally unstable primarily because the idea of someone else preparing my meals is enchantingly alluring.  It's been an endurance race like nothing I've ever gone through before, and there's no way to know when it will end.  Or if it even will end.

I usually start with Andres, as he's the first born, but I feel like I'll start with Raph today.  We planted a garden in a little tub on our patio with a baby sugar snap, a mint and a sweet basil starter.  I discovered that Raphael is an avid gardener!  He loves to water the "babies," as he calls them, and uses a tiny plastic watering can with fervor.  I've started to bake with him on Thursdays when Andres is at school all day long (the longest day of the week) and have tried to really appreciate the one-on-one time we have together.  Last week we played soccer at the park, made a new lemon cookie recipe together, and cuddled up to read books together on the sofa.  It was a chilly day with low gray clouds, so snuggling up with some good picture books, warm lemon cookies and hot blueberry tea was ideal.  This week has been sunny and warm, so it actually felt like spring.  Our cookie this week was suiting for the sunshine, and we made Fresh Strawberry Shortcake Cookies, a fun new recipe I found on Pinterest.  Raph helped cut the strawberries, and did a wonderful job.  They turned out super good, just like strawberry shortcake in a cookie!  I had a half a lemon left over from the recipe, and feeling like spring as it was, I squeezed more lemons to make my first batch of homemade lemonade.  I have to say, there is really nothing like it.  It was dee-lish.  So after our traditional Thursday meal of Totinos pizza for lunch, we enjoyed our scrumptious strawberry cookies with cold lemonade out on the picnic table. His language is coming along, and I'm loving learning about his manner and perspective.

After a year of hard work, Andres has finally graduated into the next level at swim practice.  This is the child who just last year screamed bloody murder when his face was wet.  He's now bobbing along, jumping in, and even doing back floats.  I'm proud of his work, but really excited that he's had his first real taste of pay-off, and the sensation that success brings when one overcomes something they don't like, something they don't want to do (yes there were some tears about going to swim practice, but now he loves it!), or something they are afraid to do--and swimming was all three for him.  This bolstered his confidence and I felt I had better strike while the iron was hot and get him into a piano lesson, as Aaron and I had been talking about the need for that, since we feel being musically literate is important in gaining skills overlapping in other areas of life.  Following my musician husband's lead, agreeing with him that piano is a really good foundational instrument, and that when Andres is 10 years old he can choose his own instrument.  We're so blessed to be able to have private lessons from a veteran teacher who not only had two boys herself (hence, she gets the creature of a boy), but she's also the mother of our dear friends from church, the Votrobecks.  She's been around Andres since he was tiny.  After two weeks of piano, I've seen him really focus and yes, although he can get a little distracted or squirrly, he practices well, and seems to enjoy playing.  When we practice on the old upright in the garage before bathtime, he'll point to the accompaniment at the bottom and say "you play that part when I play my part, Mom."  Poor kid.  I never learned how to play piano, only tenor sax in high school jazz band, and can't play that lovely accompaniment to duet with him.  Perhaps when Aaron's not doing homework or at class, he can duet with him.  But he feels really proud of his little Tick Tock song that he's working on, and I am learning with him.  I've also signed him up for a theater camp this summer, and an animated movie production class in Portland because this IS Andres, after all.  Speilberg, remember?  He's hankering for a taikwondo class, but seriously, I'm feeling like, no thanks, we're good right now.  Plus those martial arts classes like to meet twice a week, and that's too much for us at this stage.  Maybe next year.  We'll see.

I feel like we've arrived at this busy season of parenting, and life in other areas--like professional areas- is still adolescent.  I'm a failed middle school teacher unemployed, and Aaron's a staff accountant/college kid.  Yeah, it feels like that.  College.  We rent, we're constantly broke, our furniture is the same stuff we had in the dorms, and we cram for finals.  College, but with kids in the mix to keep us mildly insane on our toes.

On the side I've written a screenplay, and have started making friends and connections deep in the writing community in Portland.  I find that I really have a gift of storytelling, and others have been so encouraging, most loudly, my dear husband.  But my script's turning the heads from folks within the movie industry has been exhilarating  albeit a bit scary, and in classic Andria form, I have backed way down from writing just as it was getting hot.  The writing world can be dark, and Hollywood requires a sacrifice (of time, character, morals, etc. ...pick your poison).   I'm not wholly sure I'm ready for that, whatever it may be, but I know when I feel it's right I'll return to it.

Now I've also been dabbling in graphic design, having been asked to create a logo for a new 5k race our church is organizing to support our missions funds.  THAT has been a huge gift, a really wonderful experience in which I've learned a ton.  And Aaron encouraged me to save my paychecks from work to  purchase a graphic artist tablet...something that I've been lusting after for at least four years.  The caveat is that this will become a tool for me to build my ESTY shop, and open for business in August, fingers crossed.  I got the tablet in the mail two days ago and was ready to get to work, but Jumping Josepher!  It's a lot to learn!  These graphic programs are expansive and powerful, and I've just only scraped the first crusty layer of frost on the ice burg.

Aaron is rocking the casba at PSU and has stellar grades.  He's been offered several opportunities to apply for fellowships, and those offers came on the cusp of hearing from UW that he was not accepted this year into the masters of musicology program up there.  Honestly, it's a blessing.  It would have been so confusing.  He's nearly done with his masters here, and uproot midway like this would have meant all his classes would have to be retaken up in Seattle, and more loans.  So, Plan B: finish the MSM at PSU, then apply for the PhD at both UW and UO.  What that man juggles, between working full time, family full time, and grad school part time, is an amazing feat.  He handles it all with such grace and discipline, inspiring for me to witness, and I'm unspeakably proud of him.

That's been our last five weeks or so, and I'm just now, sick with a cold and all, finally coming to the surface.

Pep Talk

It's been a brutal, brutal week.  I really needed this pep talk from Kid President.  Maybe you do too.  Watch and feel inspired, refreshed, and ready to be awesome today.