Dear Friends,

Did you know that I actually have a "snail mail" correspondence with a person that I've known for 40 years. That correspondence is mostly responsible for deciding to try a blog. I've known Russell since he was 15, and we reconnected about two years ago. I feel like a split personality - - age 16 (I was a year older than him) and age 57. He remembers the 16 year old, just as I remember this wonderful, smart, quirky, delightful boy, but we've spent 21 letters getting to know each other as 50 year olds. I think we all subtly feel duality about ourselves. It's just this correpondence has heightened my awareness of it.

Drake and I were chatting the other day, and he remarked that he doesn't really know who that old guy is in the mirror whose face he shaves every day. And I realized that we don't really don't see our physical selves in the mirror at all, and when we do, it sort of distresses us because the outward appearance doesn't match with our mind's eye of us. I can remember my Gram telling me that she didn't feel any different than when she was 21, yet her hair was white, and her clothes were old fashioned, and she was 75+ at the time. So.........I began to think about what my interior age is. I suspect that it's a different age for every person. What criteria do each of us choose for fixing our interior age? Does our interior age change mercurially, or is it pretty much constant? I can only speak for myself..........

I think I'm 30. I used to be 40. The difference has to do with parenting - now that Sarah's pretty much hatched, and solo flying, I feel younger. When she was home, my interior age had to include me being a mother. Now, I don't really feel much like a mom, hence, my interior age has gone down. My interior age is planted in January of 1981. That was the month we spent in Europe. That was when I felt able to enjoy my adulthood. Old enough to be confident and happy about who I was. I haven't changed that interior perception of myself. I'm still confident, and I'm happy to be who I am. It's only when my body fails me that I have to accept the outer person as reality.

So, what is your REAL age and why? Let me know.

It's the new year, 2008

Dear Friends,

It's a new year, and my resolution is to be more faithful at writing on my blog. I didn't realize how many people were reading these missives. Hopefully, I'll be able to keep this resolution. Aren't resolutions funny? I mean those resolution lists always seem to look the same -yes, even the ones in your head. I think this is typical:
(1) lose weight
(2) stop smoking
(3) spend more time with my kid(s) or spouse
(4) manage stress
(5) get organized

However, wouldn't it be more productive and much more fun to have these kinds of resolutions:
(1) eat superior chocolate
(2) laugh at one joke a day
(3) really focus on something beautiful that crosses your path each day
(4) blow your top once in a while just because you feel better afterwards
(5) go out of your way to do something nice or unexpected for someone else

Now, don't those resolutions make a lot more sense? They certainly do to me. I've already done 1,2,3 & 5 today. And it was much, much better than any of those other resolutions. I also have an x-rated list of resolutions, and I didn't list them as I wouldn't want to offend anyone...................but, if you want to know, just have to know, you can email me privately.

I guess I'll close with the traditional Happy New Year. If there's one thing I do absolutely know, it's that there's not way to predict what will happen in the next 365 days. Might as well go along for the ride and get as much pleasure out of the journey as possible.

Friends,

I realize it's been some time since I posted, but remember, I said that this was not going to be a "I went to the store yesterday" blog effort. I only want to post when I have something to say. Therefore:

Yesterday, we went to the Fair. Don't worry, this isn't going to be "we did this and that". I was much more intrigued by the cultures that intersected and swirled around one another. Let me see if I can give you a bird's eye view, or should I say "a Big Tex" view. Incidentally, it's hard to understand why Big Tex is so revered - he really looks cheezy. However, I was as thrilled as everyone else to see him standing over the heart of the fairgrounds.

I think the first cultural grouping I noticed were the people working the fair. Missing teeth, a nicotine addiction, tattoos gotten prior to fashionability, and being either noticeably overweight or noticeably underweight seem to be the common characteristics. I talked to several. Everyone was very pleasant even the people who looked a little scary, but I can't imagine doing their jobs. Coming up to the fair I noticed that one entire lot was covered with RV's. These people are the last American gypsys. They must move constantly following the fair swing from the north to the south to the west. I think there is still the "carny" community lurking under the surface carefully hidden from the casual visitors to the annual event. These are also people without illusions. How could you have any left if you brush up against with the American massses everyday? I noticed that at the ferris wheel there was a box labeled "counterfeit tickets". I asked if that was really a problem, and the reply was, "You bet." The ride ticket taker went on to explain that some counterfeiters were so stupid as to use regular xerox paper in place of the official cardboard tickets. His contempt was obvious when he muttered, "Risking 10 years in prison for carnival rides".

The fair workers at the rides, at the booths, and at the demonstrations (let me tell you about Kitchencraft cookware!) were very different from the "car" people. At the auto show, the car salespeople - and yes, there were a lot of women pitching cars, all looked scrubbed, uniformed, preppy and rooted. The impression was that the fair was a break in the routine for them. They just seemed happy to be out of an office. Who knows; maybe they are addicted to funnel cake, and this is their annual fix. The car people were all and I mean all white. Oh, I saw car salespeople with different racial tints to their faces, but they were all projecting the white middle class culture of controlled acquisition. My guess is that's who looks at the auto show at the fair. We certainly did. We also interacted (the 21st centure word for talked to) several people. It wasn't unusual for two or more sets of people to be looking at and sitting in the same care. You know me. When I got into the driver's seat and there was some stranger sitting next to me in the passenger seat, my quip was: "Where do you want to go?" I got some interesting answers from old guys who were happily surprised that a female was smiling at them and talking to them. And I'm fat and old!

There just isn't anything prettier than shiny new cars. I wonder if 200 years ago, people felt that way about horses?

It was also no surprise that different events attracted different audiences. The dog show was filled with strollers - and man, are those high tech now. The babeball exhibit from Cooperstown was populated with old people and the handicapped. The movie show costumes were being seen by women. None of which was surprising at all.

Truly the best part of the fair is being part of something so traditional that appeals to every segment of our society. Unfortunately, it took a long time for Dallas to make the fair inclusive. I read that clear up until the early 1970's - there was a separate day for the "colored" to attend the fair. It was dressed it up with some fancy name, but it was that old devil we call segregation and was really apartheid. During the struggle for basic civil rights, when the young African-Americans organized a campaign to boycott the separate day at the fair, it took real commitment for their community to back them up. After all, the fair only came once a year, and was as looked forward to as any other holiday by not only the children but by the adults too. Think of it as, "This year you don't get to have Thanksgiving." Naturally, money talks and bullshit walks - and ba-boom, ba-bing, no more separate colored day when counted on revenue started to dry up. I was cheered by the fact that there were many, many interracials couples strolling around the fair this year. Now, if we can all just stop looking at them as if they had three heads. My conviction is that the racial tension in this country will be solved when we have enough people who have feet in multiple ractial groups. Of course, my grandparents and I suspect yours, and maybe even you, reader, are horrified. If so, do a little biology study, we're all one species, duh.

The other kind of person who was at the fair is completely recognizable by everyone no matter what your skin color, your income range, your country or city address: The stuffed animal prize winner. First, I'd like to know where giant animals come from and who decides what will be produced: This year's fair is not just content with teddy bears, there are Scooby Doo's, and crayons, and new versions of cartoon characters - I didn't see Bugs Bunny, but I saw Stewie and Bart Simpsom. And they are all ginormous, humongous, and unwieldy to carry. You'd think they'd come with a strap, so they could be carried like a backpack - well, actually, it would be more like carrying a dead body, but hey, your hands would be free.

Picture this snapshot: One father, two little girls about 10 years old - best friends by the look of them - and HE'S carrying a giant pink crayon (I'm talking 4 feet high and about 9" diameter), a Scooby Doo (5 feet tall), and there's a second giant pink crayon leaning against the booth as he shifts around trying to figure out how he's going to carry all of these. Not to mention there are four "small" animals stuffed under his armpits. Oh, and did I mention, the little girls are carrying loot too? I just hope he was on the way to the car. The girls were grinning from ear to ear and chattering excitedly. Hey, all you guys who are thinking, "Well, I'd never have allowed that." - who do you think you're fooling? I'll bet everyone of you has "won" a giant something for whatever female you wanted to impress and lugged it all around the fair. Don't tell me you didn't. This poor guy yesterday had obviously miscalculated - he didn't factor in TWO girls or perhaps their? his? prowess at the games.

You know all the games, so I won't detail the ring toss, balloon burst, rifle shoot, beat with a hammer, etc. However, the most intriguing game was the ladder. It's a rope ladder with wooden sides about 18" across, about 8 feet high. Now, it's not swinging vertically at a 90 degree angle. Instead it's pitched at a 25 degree angle and it's fastened at both ends to something that allows the ladder to twirl 360 degrees. To win the prize you have to climb the ladder from bottom to top. Under the twirling ladder is the same air filled pillow you find in moonwalks. I stood there and watched it for about five minutes and never saw anybody who climbed more than three rungs before the ladder swung them 180 degrees and they fell into the pillow. It really looked like fun - especially if you were about 12.

And what fair is complete without rides. Broadly speaking, there are idiots who will ride anything and the rest of us. There's a new idiot ride this year - it costs $10 for a single ride! You are strapped into a catapult - as if you were in a spaceship - but open air - no cabin. Then the catapult flings you into the air and twirls you in a complete circle while the "seat" you are strapped onto twirls independently. So, you can be completely upside down swinging while you are at the top arc of the captapult - about 50 feet in the air - head down, feet dangling. Oh, and just to add some thrill, the tower that supports the swinging arm of the catapult, sways while the ride is going on. Let's just say that I would never, ever walk underneath this ride. Vomit falling out of the sky is a big turn-off as a fair experience.

Jan, what was your favorite, favorite part of the fair - I mean besides the corny dog, cotton candy, funnel cake and ice cream bar you consumed over an eight hour period? (Isn't that dreadful? I don't think I've ingested that much fat since the last Super Bowl party I attended.) But, I digress - my favorite part of the fair was the creative arts building - yes, all the doilies, quilts, pottery, hobby collections, afghans, painted pictures, cross stitch pictures, hardanger pictures, brazil pictures, crewel pictures, pillows, photographs, jellies, jams, pickles, hand turned wooden bowls, wreaths, xmas tree skirts, vests, sweaters, jackets - need I go on? The list could take up another five inches. It was an entire building of the "winners" in catagories like "Craftsmen, Designers" "Holiday Kits", "Hobby Collections", "Wood Carving", "Needlework", I can't conceive how many entries there were originally. The work, whether you do it or not, whether you even like the finished product or not was exquisite. I drool for beautifully created one of a kind objects. My nose was truly pressed to the glass cases. Such marvels.

However, the one entry that truly made me smile was in the "Junior" (translate kid) Hobby Collection catagory. It was the lid of a clothes dryer. The "center" of the lid had a written title: Everything My Mother has Found in My Pockets This Year. Glued around the title were every conceiveable item a 10 year old boy might stuff into his pockets at any given time. You can just imagine. It was all carefully shellacked, or whatever the modern method of shellacking is. The piece was a total hoot, and apparently the judges thought so too, because they gave it a blue ribbon.

Finally, a heads up to those who have the desire to go to the Fair and the flexability to go on a Wednesday. Fair admission is usually $14 per person. On Wednesday, you can bring 3 cans of food for the food bank, and admission to the Fair is $1.00 - yes, that's not a typo, $1.00 and you can make another small contribution to making life better for someone else in the most basic way - by offering food to the hungry in our community.

When you go, say, "Howdy" to Big Tex for me. He's the tall guy in the Dickies right across from the Fletcher's Corny Dog booth, and next to the Chevrolet test drive track.

School Started Without Me

Yesterday, school started. And it started without me. I can honestly say that I didn't even have mixed feelings. I was just so glad NOT to be starting another school year. If you think about school from a teacher's perspective (which is a whole lot different than either a student or parent perspective), school is on a sliding scale continuum - like a number line.

On the negative side of the continuum are (1) curriculum restrictions - Think: "If it's Tuesday the 29th, we should be on page 4" (2) unreponsive managment - translated: The principal/vice-principal doesn't back you up when he/she has to chose sides in a crisis. (3) the PAPERWORK - Ok, I've changed my mind - this item is the supernegative. Paperwork: Count the kids for this, fill out form, send it to the black hole. Gather together all the work Johnny is going to miss because he's suspended for 7 days. (I did this ad nauseum and I never, repeat, never got a single paper back from Johnny - kids who get suspended for 7 days don't do school work). Count the kids and separate them as to race, reading ability, writing ability, left handedness, extra-curriculars, possiblity of failure, TAKS scores, NCLB ratings, library fines, book returns, honor role, male, female, birthdate, size, etc., etc., etc. - send paperwork to the black hole. Read and responding to email where you have to furnish "a sample". And finally, preparing for, organizing and attending meetings - approximately 3 per week lasting between 3-4 hours a week. And finally, last be certainly not least - this item costs about 10 hours of time every year - the CEIP (that would be the Campus Education Improvement Plan) that everyone is required to help write. Then it's sent "downtown" and ignored by everyone unless the administration needs a scapegoat.

Getting closer to the center of our mythical continuum but still on the negative side: Continual, constant, unremitting grading of papers. I graded 35 regular papers PER STUDENT every six weeks. I also graded 6 involved papers (like projects, major essay exams, writing projects) PER STUDENT every six weeks. If you have 75 students, that's 75 involved papers every week, plus 6 x75 = 450 regular papers PER WEEK. Grading papers tends to eat into your sleep, your social time, your family time. It's a grind. But it's the only way to be fair to students - I didn't teach college - only the ninth grade, and no one should have to stand or fall in a class based on five or six grades for an entire six weeks. Since, I assigned the work myself, I could hardly complain. A sure sign of teacher burn-out is when they stop grading papers. And I was lucky - I had a class load of 75 - 100 kids. I've known English teachers who had class loads of 225 kids. (When the teacher- this was just 2 years ago at Arlington Heights- complained to the principal that she couldn't effectively teach 225 kids, his answer was, "Oh, it will be OK, some will drop-out". Of course, not many left and she was a physical and nervous wreck by the end of the school year.) [SEE ABOVE - PRINCIPAL DOES NOT BACK YOU UP]

Moving slightly into the positive side of the continuum is "discipling of students". You are considered a failure as a teacher if you can't discipline your own students. Nobody in the main office wants to see a kid with a referral (a disciplinary complaint from the teacher to the administration - ie: "he won't do what he's told, and flips me off, and calls me profane names") You can write maybe one of those a year - you're expected to handle these little problems yourself. I used my lunch hour and my planning period to help students work through their discipline problems - That means they had to come and spend time with me when it should have been their free time. I tried various strategies all of which take time, time, time and energy. - Of course, it also meant that many days I inhaled lunch in 10 minutes or had to take a shoulder breaking amount of work home in my shoulder-strap briefcase.

If you still can't get Fred to do what he's told, stop flipping you off and calling you a "fucking bitch", then you personally have to track down the parent/guardian/warm blooded adult Fred lives with through non-existent phone numbers, return to sender addresses, and contacts through next door neighbors, divorced Dads/Moms, or Grannies. Some kids hid themselves from the school district so well that I NEVER knew where they lived or who they lived with.

On the positive side of the continuum is planning lessons that will interest students and be challenging. Unfortunately, this is being taken away from teachers in favor of "canned curriculum" -meaning that everyone in the entire district who teaches 9th grade English (or whatever) is doing the same thing at the same time. The justification for this is to standardize the curriculum. The theory is that you will have the same opportunities if you go to Paschal or if you go to Polytechnic. The reality is that no one is satisfied except for: the average student, the below average teacher, and the administration.

Finally, the only real reward on the positive side of the continuum is the actual teaching - where you see the aha's and the positive energy that learning in a safe environment can provide to both the students and the teachers.

If you look back at this post, it's a sad commentary on the public education system that the things that make the job so difficult are the longest paragraphs while the enjoyable, rewarding part of teaching is the shortest paragraph. I guess that explains clearer than anything I could write why I was glad school started without me this fall.

So, now I'm just looking for a new identity..............................in some ways I feel like an adolescent again - just not as scared.

Got to find the right venue

Friends,

I just returned from the "reception" of the art show I entered this weekend. First, I didn't win anything - well, I didn't expect to. It was surprising that in our podunk town that the majority of the entries were really beautifully done. I loved several pictures, and appreciated the technique in many others.

However.........that said..............I was like a big, bright piece of what the heck is that doing here in the midst of all these paintings? This was not the right venue for me. There turned out to be no catagory for what I do. There were no other "mixed media" offerings at all. I think I just committed a big no-no, and everyone was too nice to say so. This show was all about painting and only painting. As Drake commented, "Maybe 'Fine Art' is code for painting." They had oil, they had watercolor, they had acrylic. Nothing else was really offered. I only felt a little stupid for not 'getting it'.

But, that said; I do have a brochure with my name bigger than Texas under the title "Contributing Artists". I learned a lot about how the system works - assuming this art show was representative. And, it will be a long time before I risk putting work out there if I have to compete as an orange among apples.

Declaring yourself an artist and handing the piece over are two different things entirely

Update on the "I am an artist" first experience: Yesterday, I entered the Mid-Cities Fine Arts Juried Exhibition with my self-designed piece of embroidery that I had matted and framed. I'll attach a picture of it to this blog. If I've done an attachment before, well, too bad, I'm really proud of this piece. Back to the story............

Gulp. Now this show isn’t exactly the MOMA in New York City. For pete’s sake, it’s in the Hurst Recreation Center. I don’t know what I thought was going to happen. Well, actually, I did. I'd had daymares as well as nightmares of what submitting a piece was going to be like. I was sure that I would be laughed at, or even worse, sneered at and told to take my "craft" home.

After all, St. Paul people like my pre-designed kits and flowers, and admire my technique, but no one there has been too receptive to my own designs. Well, I took the picture over to the Hurst Rec Center, and the first thing that happened was some midget middle-aged helmet haired woman wearing what looked to me like a housecoat said, “What’s this supposed to be?” “What’s it made out of?” Where are we supposed to put this?” I just wanted to vanish like a wisp of smoke and take my picture with me. My worst fears were unrolling right in front of my eyes in real time.

Fortunately, a couple of angelic savior women working the show came over and said, “Wow. That’s amazing.” “You designed this yourself and did all the work?” “Of course, we’ll put it in ‘mixed media’; it’s spectacular.” So I started breathing again, and smiled for real instead of continuting this sort of rictus grin – you know the kind you see in a Halloween fright movie of the insane killer? The roaring in my ears stopped enough to hear that I’m supposed to be there Sunday afternoon at 3:30 for the reception and the awards, I guess. There are prizes which are probably the equivalent of state fair ribbons. I don’t care. My picture is hanging on the wall WITH OTHER ARTISTS. I’ll let you know what happens. To be continued.....................

I am an artist.

Friends,

I have an announcement: I am an artist. Here's how this epiphany came about. As everyone knows, I embroider. I'd probably embroider the shirt you're wearing; I so obsessed. What many of you don't know that the heart tin that I travel around with is just my boring, amuse myself, traveling piece that I've usually bought on ebay for a couple of bucks. I have no real attachment to these pieces and tend to just give them away to whoever really, really likes the piece when I'm done with it. To me they are like "paint by number" kits that showcase - hey, Jan does really nice work. They are craft items. Nice craft items, but craft, not art.

These pieces also tend to wind up in the fall festival live auction at my church because they are usually very representational and safe and people like them. In actuality, I live and breathe to create my own designs. I love the challenge of a blank piece of cloth waiting to be drawn upon. I've been a closet artist for a couple of years now. These pieces are much, much harder for me to part with. I usually choose very carefully who gets these. (Well, except for the piece that I put in the silent auction a couple of years ago - and it turned out the right person won it.) If you own one of my original pieces, then you are truly a special person to me. I sign and date these pieces.

To continue..................I had just finished an original creation and showed it to Cody Aarons. This sixteen year old friend is an artist himself - he paints, and is a photographer, and just has an artistic eye. He flipped over this piece. When I tentatively asked him, "Do you think this could be art? - his reply was puzzled surprise that I would even think to ask that stupid question. Of course, the piece was art.

Carpe Diem - The very next day was the announcement of the Mid Cities Fine Arts Juried Art Show sponsored by the City of Hurst. I'm picking up my piece from the framer this afternoon, and I'm entering it in the show which will be displayed at the Hurst Rec Center on Mary Drive next weekend - August 11th from 11:00 a.m to 2:00 p.m is the judging. The reception August 12th, 3:30 - 5:00 p.m. Other than when you can bring your piece, that's all I know. Oh, and you have to be older than 18. I defininately have that covered.

What I don't know is if they will accept my piece. Here's my thinking: (1) Most people will not laugh in your face; they will wait until your back is turned. (2) Sarah's coming home to give me moral support, and she's very enthusiastically encouraging me. (3) It's only the Hurst Rec Center - this ain't exactly the Lourve. (4) My piece may be abstract, but that doesn't mean it's not "fine art" and (5) I'm pretty sure that there will be no one else working in my medium (See? I'm already throwing around the art lingo!) What I mean is there won't be any other thread pictures. Come and see - maybe if I can get huge numbers of people saying, "LOOK! THAT'S JUST MAJESTIC!" , it will drown out the comments I'm afraid I'll get: "DOES THIS WOMAN THINK THAT'S ART? SHE'S CRAZY!"

I'm stepping out. I'm declaring in a public forum: I'm an artist. Boy, is this emotionally scary.

Fingers crossed. Heart thumping. Absolutely determined to do this.