The Momma Mobile

Any person of any age remembers the car that drove them to school, to grandma's and let's not forget those family vacations. We have pictures and memories of each location, but what brought us there?

My earliest memory of the momma mobile is the Chevy Citation, that two tone wonder with faux leather seats.  In the summer, you had to remember to bring a towel or second degree burns greeted you. In the winter, you never seemed warm. The windows were hand cranked and there was no stereo, just a radio. As simple as it was, it carried us to Christmas delights in the wilds of West Texas, to camping trips and pool side. It was where I blew my first bubble. It ended its life in those wilds of West Texas and I was introduced to the new momma mobile, the Pontiac 6000. A solid white station wagon where I spent many a road trip against the very back window with all the luggage. Before seat belt laws and child safety restraints, I would doze among the suitcases as mom sang along to Janice, Carole and Joni.

It was this momma mobile that greeted the additions to our little family. Now it carried four children and we listened to Dad sing along to George, Hank and Johnny. One Christmas Eve though, we made a memory in that Pontiac that brings a smile each year no matter where I am. It was late as we traveled home from the Wilson's Christmas Eve. Santa would hopefully come considering it was well past midnight and we were not in our beds. Children sleepy yet too excited, parents weary yet happy, "I Wanta Wish you a Merry Christmas" came on the radio.  All six voices joined in and we sang at a definitely unrespectful volume.  None of us knew the Spanish words but that did not deter our merriment.  When the song ended, the smiles and giggles remained and they remain still some 20 odd year later.

As fate would have it, the Pontiac met her demise as well in West Texas. She climbed her last hill in Comanche. Her engine replaced she made it to my teenage years but her spark was gone.  Our next momma mobile was the latest and greatest of engineering marvels, the minivan, a Ford Aerostar stood blue in the sun.  Now we four had plenty of room to spread out, no longer could we fight about who sat with the luggage.  It was in the Aerostar that I took my driving test.  It was in this momma mobile I carried my brother and sisters to school.  By the end of her days, the sliding door wouldn't open and we crawled out the front, but she will forever be my first car.

Now, I have four children of my own.  I carry them to school, dance class, football games and Boy Scouts. Our latest momma mobile was again a blue Ford minivan, although, it's now called a Windstar. Its windows were electric, and it had dual sliding doors, but a minivan she was.  She has carried us camping, family vacations and through my daughter's first driving lessons. I wonder what they will remember about her. Will it be how the twins drew self portraits in Sharpie on the back of the middle seat? Will it be how one of the sliding doors stopped working and the other had its days? Or will it be how it was the car that took them fishing for the first time?  She carried me through my teacher certification training and as she approached mile marker 180,000, she had begun to have a serious hitch in her gitty up. She was on her last leg as I drove into the Ford house last Saturday afternoon. We both knew her time had come.

Brian Faulk met me outside and shook my hand as well as the hand of my companion.  Both of us share the same first name and as most people do, he grinned and said, "Well, that makes it easy."  We looked at all the shiny cars and the latest of momma mobiles, the SUV.  Minivans have been deemed uncool, then, Brian showed me the Flex.  As destiny would have it, she was white.  Although not called a station wagon, she makes you think of those days of old when the "woodie" carried children to school or the Brady's to their next crazy adventure. For me, she sang "I Wanta Wish you a Merry Christmas" and had me looking for days gone by.  So we chatted us two Rachels and Brian, while the finance man worked his magic. I learned Brian had three children of his own and smiled when he said, "Bless your heart," when he learned of my profession.  He gave us a crazy grin and awarded us the "most miles on a Windstar".  They gave me $500 for her and after a little help from Dad on the down payment, the Ford Flex was ours to drive away.

Now she has all the current bells and whistles from a self lifting back door to heated seats. She is a far cry from the blue minivan I left behind that in memory is worth more than $500.  We picked up the kids in her on Monday afternoon and watched in gleeful delight as they marveled at the updated momma mobile; however, she was not christened quite yet.  Not until Adele came on and we six sang along to "Set Fire to the Rain". A whisper of a moment where I swore the Pontiac 6000 lived on and Santa would be on his sleigh.

The momma mobile is sometimes our first car, sometimes that vehicle where we pray she runs and sometimes she carries us to destinations new and exciting.  Although, I updated her, stories of memories will forever be started with, "Remember when we went to so in so, we were in the blue van then."  Our cars are not just metal and plastic and rubber wheels, they don't just carry us around, they carry our connections to time and space.  I write and wonder where this one will take me. What will my children remember of her?  To Brian at All-Star, you didn't just sell me a car, you gave me a way to future memories.  I hope they be as joyous as those of her predecessors.

Growing Things

My mother is a grower, a grower of children, of plants, of faith. She has always nurtured those around her with kind words and a helping hand. In my youth, she always had plants, from giant elephant ears in huge pots that are older than me to aloe vera in small pots that soothed sun kissed skin. She would work endlessly in garden rows weeding and watering. I loathed it. I would lay in the sun on the deck of our pool and watch her puttering in the heat and think she was a crazy person. She was always trying to get her children to help, to find the joy in the planting of something and watching it grow to bear fruit. I would whine and pout and trade any chore to not have to venture the few steps to the garden for any reason. It was always there and yet I cannot recall any time I willingly ventured into it. I cannot recall anything she grew other than tomatoes and that, only because she would make homemade salsa.

Growing up in small town Texas, my only thought when I graduated high school was to find the first city and live the urban life and so I did. I ran hard and fast to those city streets where delivery men would bring you everything from pizza to pharmacy items, where a car was superfluous and the train took me everywhere I needed to go. There was noise on every corner and the pace was swift. Patience was neither a virtue nor a necessity as rushing was a part of the game. The only gardens I passed were well groomed borders outside high rises and apartment buildings. Concrete replaced grass and no tree was older than me much less older than three generations. My few attempts at adding potted plants to my urban dwelling, proved fruitless. Actually, I could kill them at quite an alarming rate. I once killed a cactus and an ivy, so I gave up the art of growing things, much to my mother's chagrin.

Once my oldest daughter came of school age though, I started seeing our apartment life through her eyes. I started asking those questions of the right school, where would she ride a bike, where would she run? The answer was inevitable. I happily gave up the urban life for that corner of the world next door to my mother. Returning to small town Texas took something of an adjustment. In the city, you never made eye contact. People who did were either crazy or selling something, so when I walked into our local grocery store and the entire check out counter turned and smiled and said, "Hello", I jumped about 3 foot high. I had forgotten what it was like to be welcome, to be an individual instead of just another number in a long line.

There were other adjustments. Patience here, is a virtue and a blessing as the pace is set not by clocks or deadlines, but by conversations. There is no running in and out of the store. Here, people do not let anyone pass without a hello or at least the nod of their head. Traffic, well, what little traffic there is, is not in any hurry to get anywhere. Missed lights are just that, missed. You simply wait for the next one.

I found myself on several acres of land but what to do with it, so last year I decided to plant a garden. Oh horror of horrors, I was becoming my mother. So I consulted books and the Internet and bought the appropriate tools and began to cultivate a small area for tomatoes, squash, onions, carrots and watermelons. I also had cantaloupe, pole beans and cucumber. My mother that grower of growers came to see my progress. She seemed fairly pleased but underneath her brave face I know she said a silent prayer for each plant as she foresaw their doom. My previous track record as her guide, she believed I would soon prove to be a mass murderer. I couldn't blame her really. I mean, a cactus, really, who kills a cactus?

So every available hour, I spent weeding and watering. What I found though was that it wasn't the work I had once thought it to be. These tiny plants were in my care and how could I let them be suffocated by bull nettle and dandelions or let them grow thirsty in the Texas sun. It wasn't any different than the same nurturing I would never deny my children. My children who unlike their selfish mother, found such pride and yes, joy in the growing of things. Some days they beat me to it. They would check each plant and make reports on new blooms, new baby watermelons, where the bull nettle was trying to take hold. They would walk the rows with me and ask questions and give their intriguing theories on how the sun and water could make anything grow."Just like us, huh, mom?" Yes, I would say, just like you.  We harvested squash, we made salsa from our own tomatoes and onions, we looked desperately for any type of watermelon recipe to keep up with our production.

The planted garden though, brought our attention to the other things growing in our yard. We found blackberries, figs, and wild grapes. Again, the google searches ran wild for recipes. My children happily smashed grapes and figs for jelly, but even greater was that I realized that google did not have all the answers. It was like my mother who had been there all along came into focus. I finally had something solid to share with my mother the grower. She spent several afternoons, with her grandchildren and sure gel, ladling hot fruit syrup into Ball jars. She would step outside and smile at the garden I now lovingly tended. I wonder how many times she giggled at the irony.This year we planted bigger. The planning beginning well before the winter ended as each child was allowed to pick their own plant. One chose a tomato plant called a Lemon Boy. It produces these almost neon yellow fruit that are just as yellow on the inside as on the outside. Each day my son would travel to the garden and talk to the plant like it was one of his best friends. He would notice each new leaf, each bloom and when it bore its first fruit he was like a dad in a delivery room, flushed with pride but not sure what to do. Today, I rushed to harvest tomatoes, jalapenos and chilies before the rain forced me inside. I spent the rest of the afternoon canning my harvest. My mother does not have to come this year to show me how it's done, she simply enjoys the fruits of my labor.

She looked at my garden the other day with a wistful smile. "What are you thinking?" I asked. "I was just trying to picture what the land looked like before you started this beautiful garden. It's funny, but I can't remember the weeds." She said.  There my friends is the lesson in joy, in growing things and in life. Once you make that step, that joyful step towards something new, something passion demands whatever it may be, the ugliness you left behind becomes vague and indistinct. It was there in your past but now, all that remains is the beauty.

My mother is a grower. A grower of children, of plants and of faith. Her faith was the one I did not see in my youth. Her faith that her children would one day be a grower as well. She did not know what we would grow, but she knew we would. Her children have brought her 12 grandchildren so far. We all live very different lives in very different ways, yet I see her in each of us. Our passion for education, our faith in our children and in my new love of growing things. It is a simple joy, to harvest what one has planted, but no less a joy. It is a joy that I pass to my children as my shocked mother has passed it to me. In my search for those human connections, I found one very close to home. My mother has taught me many things as mothers do, but this simple joy of growing things, I will treasure, always.

San Antonio

Well Harry, it seems that New Jersey's love of Texas has been reaffirmed. I traveled to the Alamo City for CAMT (Council for the Advancement of Mathematics Teaching) this week. I was accompanied on this journey by several of my fellow mathematics colleagues. These ladies and gentlemen and 6,000 of our peers gathered to share our knowledge and new techniques, but mostly, we shared our joy. Joy for teaching mathematics, for our students and most importantly, for each other.

When I last traveled to San Antonio, instead of being the driver, I was the drivee. I was a student of history then. Mrs. Shehee gathered us 75 7th graders on the big yellow limousine and off we went to "Remember the Alamo". I did remember the Alamo, but as some static figure whose walls stood bright in the sun. I remember San Antonio as vivid flashes of color and constant music, how Valerie Caldwell was the only one of us small town girls who knew to tip the bellman. I recall the drama of Jr high life, Jason Sherman had a crush on Kelley Davis and I had broken up with Doug Koller just before we left. I giggle at our naivety and yet, cherish it. My return is still vivid colors and constant music, but this time instead of rushing to the next place, I found myself rushing to the next encounter, my next human experience.

Our hotel sat on the Riverwalk these great engineering marvels of stone and steel and glass. My first night was very similar to my first night long ago, as my roommate and I chatted like school girls at a slumber party till the wee hours of the morning. Although, this time, instead of boys and fashion, it was kids and fashion and no one's underwear was stolen.

The next day dawned and we were off. I listened to speakers on technology, pros and cons, the challenges of public schools and new techniques to reach the next generation. For four days, wherever I turned, math geeks of the highest order whose sole purpose was to try to find ways to be better teachers, better educators, better people, flowed through the halls of the convention center. There was laughter and smiles and joy. Throughout this past school year, I struggled to maintain my joy in the daily grind of time limits and testing pressure. As I approach the new school year, I find that as those restraints begin to bind, I will remember 6,000 smiling faces and know that no matter what, the joy remains.

I visited the Alamo again and her walls still stood bright in the sun. Her cannons now rusting in the Texas heat with landscaped lawn, but there was more. A stillness surrounds her despite the constant ebb and flow people.  They do not call her a museum, but a shrine. A place "bigger than Texas" they proclaim on the wall, a place of reflection instead of a place of relics. She does not want your awe. She simply sits patiently waiting for you. Time to remember why she still stands.  Time to travel back, here the bells calling priests to prayers, to hear the cannon fire, the screams of men and feel the tears of the women who mourned them, smell the destruction, the pain and the struggle that caused her to become a place of birth and new life. I stood in the same room as other women and children did during the siege of the Alamo. I toured the barracks of the priests who had originally built her. Earlier this summer, I stood in our nation's capitol and read our Declaration of Independence. That day, I stood and read another nation's Declaration of Independence. I connected the two, the similarities, the differences, yet, all were simply written by humans in defense of the same principles. I gave her my time and she gave me that human connection for which I continue to search.

One evening, we colleagues five, who span the teaching spectrum from relative newbie to wizened veteran, sat on the Riverwalk and just were. We ate and laughed and ate some more. We talked to those passersby and shared in the experiences of mothers with sleepy babies, vendors whose personalities brought smiles to tired, sweaty tourists, Mariachi bands who did not mind when we sang along in Texas accents. We watched children feed bread to the ducks and pigeons despite the signs that ask you not too. We listened to the whir of motors as the river tours continued into the night.  Hours passed like blinks. All of us tired from the days events, all of us a little grimy from the heat, but each of us enjoying that space in time when we were just people, sharing the night.

In one moment though, as I stepped away from the crowd to the lonely places smokers are designated, I found a little reminder of you Harry. A woman joined me. She smiled as she introduced herself and her granddaughter. I stand only 5'4" and she barely came to my shoulder with silver hair that fell down her back.  As I heard her voice,  I knew that she was from that same small speck of the world as you, Harry. She told me how much they were enjoying San Antonio and how such a blessing it was that the humidity was so low. I laughed and asked her how 70% humidity was low. They smiled and said, "We're from Florida." She questioned my furrowed brow and I explained how I had placed her accent as from New Jersey. Her eyes shone with a held back tear and she gasped and told me no one had guessed the place of her birth. I almost told her of you then Harry, but she went on to tell me how she had come to Florida and then Texas and I did not want to interrupt. She told me that she was here as a representative of the Sister City program and how it was an organization that brought people from around the globe together to talk in a one on one setting, to communicate despite our differences. I almost cried then Harry and knew I had to pull out my phone to share the story of you. She kindly read it and I saw as the knowledge dawned that I have been on a similar journey.

We put out our cigarettes and began to part ways. She gave me her card, wished me well and told me, "Find Harry." So, I write and maybe in this digital land of opportunity, I will find you Harry. In the meantime, I will continue to find my joy and those human experiences.

So wherever you are Harry from New Jersey, love from East Texas by way of San Antonio.

Birthday 35

I hit a milestone earlier this year when I turned 35. To many, this is but a blip on the age radar but I confess my vanity took a blow. I also confess that I hope to have many similar blows to that vanity. I am reposting the story of my salvation in this new format as requested, but also so that I have time to process a new experience or I should say many new experiences.

Birthday 35

I turned 35 today at 2:44 pm. Holy cow! 35! I wanted to celebrate by being pampered and lazy and wallowing in my own self-pity as I hit that middle milestone of my 30s,that hump day of years that tells me I’m now sliding towards 40. No such luck I’m afraid. My sons who conned me into letting them join Boy Scouts this year had a troop family camping trip on this particular day, just another Saturday in their lives. So after much whining, wallowing and general pathetic, I loaded up the cooler and assorted camping gear along with my four children and out we headed for the wilds of East Texas.
Personally, I had not been camping since my oldest now 15 going on 16 was still in diapers and then it was the whole family, brother, sisters and parents. We arrive, the unloading begins. Girls squabbling, boys running amuck. Now to put up the tent. The tent that my father owned. The tent my father and mother took my sister and me camping in every chance they had. The tent of which I have so many childhood memories.
As I and some of the other Boy Scout parents put up the tent, I can smell the past. It comes rushing at me so fast I can’t take it all in. The sound the zipper makes at night when the world is quiet in the dark with only the stars for light. It’s so loud it hurts your ears, the feel of the tarp, cool and crinkly beneath your feet. There it stood my home away from home. The tent that is as old as me smiling at me with its zipper teeth and so I sit and smile back and let the tears fall as I watch the ghost of my father grabbing a fishing pole or a beer or heading off for a game of horseshoes. He laughs as he shows me how to cast my first line. The smell of the seven’s dust mom has sprinkled over my shoes and ankles to prevent chiggers and ticks. The way the sun sets over the lake at Brown Ranch, the crackle of wood as I walk to see my first beaver’s dam. Oh the smell of that campfire where wondrous delights magically appeared out of a cast iron Dutch oven. Wave after wave of sensation hit me as the tent never faltered in its smile. I was so young, so free. There was nothing I’d rather do than wake up on a cool summer morning and hear that gunshot zipper just to watch the sun rise. Then off we go, Troup 412, nature hike commences and the smell of sulfur follows.
Then it’s time for fishing. The patient man’s game. I stand apart as the troop leader lets my son bait a hook and the whispers begin. The smells begin. Oh they come so fast so deep. The bait shop on the corner of Washington St and Hwy 175 where we would bag our own minnows, scoop our own night crawlers, the bright flash of a lewer, the bend and sway of a good cane pole, the click of a Zepco reel. And then whoosh, he’s done it. My Ryan has cast his first line. I feel the shove, slight but steady and hear the whisper, “He’s got too much slack in that line. Show him how it must be, Rachel, show him.” I reach out and gently reel as I say, “See your line, all those curls, it should be almost straight.” “That’s a girl.”
As my arms wrapped around my son, my father’s wrapped around me. He smiled and winked. I saw him there casting and reeling and casting. “He was never still.” I say. “My dad, I would sit and watch my bobber and he’d be halfway around the lake.” Those around me just smile. They can’t see him, just there, casting. They can’t hear him. They can’t feel him, but I know he’s right here, casting and walking.
Over the years, his memory fades his face less distinct, his voice unclear. I attest it to time. I’ve had more years without him than I did with him. It troubled me but time marches and we but follow along. Today, I did not follow. I found a new time where past and present blended, old with new. His face was so clear, the old spice cologne strong. My son smiles and I see him right there. He was giving me a gift and all I had to do was open it. I did. I fished for pooches with my son and I watched the sun set on the lake as the bobber bounced on the waves. I reveled in the sound of water lapping and the subtle click of the reel, the feel of the pole, the thrill of that first pull, the dip of the bobber, the race to reel and tug, and the sadness when they get away. I was just free. Peace at last.
I struggle with finding balance with the ways of the past and my fast approaching future. My gift today, my birthday gift today was from my father. “Just breathe, slow down and watch that line. Don’t let it get too slack, reel in, slow, slow. Patience. You’ll get ‘em next time.” Thank you Bill “Country” Wilshire for reminding me that although I lost you physically long ago, you gave me the gift of life, the gift of joy in the simple things and fishing lessons that I can now pass to my sons. I know that you wish to bring me joy and peace and fishing. Our journey around the lake will never end and our sunset will forever stay just beyond the dam on Brown Lake. I love you, Dad!

Some time ago, I was encouraged to write. As is human nature, we doubt our own abilities. Over the past several months though, the universe has been presenting me with opportunities to share some human experiences. As I began to share, the more I seemed to be presented with a need to write on a more frequent basis. This need is a living, breathing thing that if not nurtured appropriately evolves into an obsession. I have created this blog to give myself an outlet of sorts in hopes that I can maintain a healthy sense of self. The title of my blog was inspired by one of those human experiences and by Mr. Dylan Hollingsworth.  Through his beautiful photography and life journeys, I have been inspired to try to connect more with my fellow members of the human race.

To Harry From New Jersey

I wish I had taken a picture of you so that I could remember your face better and so that I had something to show when I spoke of you. I truly enjoyed our chats those summer evenings, both of us exhausted from the days travels, yet both not quite willing to give up the day.

Who would have thought that we would have began a conversation based on the fact that two others outside were having a very loud conversation. Ours began as kind of a would you listen to them shrug and then evolved into a so where are you from and then somewhere along the way became a philosophical discussion on how you can’t choose your family. Long after the two tipsy gentlemen went in for the night, we sat still.

That first night outside the Holiday Inn Laurel West not far from our nation’s capitol, we smoked a few, we laughed, there were some tears on my part and we simply communicated. I learned that Harry is an ex-marine, although I hear that’s not an entirely true statement as apparently there is no such thing as an ex marine, from New Jersey. He served his time in the core in the recon company and that’s how he cleaned up his life. He really did go into the service on a jail or marines tour sometime in the 70s. A program our military he says, “Thankfully.” doesn’t employ anymore. I laughed at the irony of his statement and so did he.

Harry now works for a chiller management company. He is a project manager, which means he’s the boss and makes sure everything gets installed properly from the boilers to the thermostats in major office building and hospitals. I laughed and said, “So its your fault I’m either too hot or too cold.” He just shrugged and said, “Yep.” He is attending a training in D.C. on more efficient chillers and how to program them.

He made me think of all those people that say, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Maybe you can’t, but Harry was learning them. He is also several weeks into the P90X program and could probably outrun me with out even trying. I am in awe and realize that reinventing oneself is a matter of commitment. Harry didn’t want to keep taking the pills the doctor prescribed for diabetes, so he picked a serious work out regiment, and has been able to reduce his dosages significantly.

I simply listened to Harry talk about his parents and their passing. His brother who didn’t attend the funeral. His great stories about the government blowing up the desert in the 70s where he was stationed. I learned that the base he was at, is the only marine base where they do not require you to shine your boots, because the temperature is so high, that it melts the wax used to shine them right off. I learned that the great state of Texas for the most part is loved. I am not sure why they love us, but Harry was glad that his next training was in Houston. He simply grinned at me when he mentioned it like a kid who had a secret.

On the second night I stepped outside after a grueling day, Harry was there. He was watching the end of the Red Sox game on his phone. They won! I forgot to ask him why a man from Jersey was a Red Sox fan. The second night we were quieter. Simply two people enjoying the quiet of the moment. I found the courage to ask him why Jersey is called the garden state and learned that New Jersey has more horse farms than Kentucky and is a large exporter of tomatoes, who knew? I listened as he told me about his crazy psychiatrist friend which I found quite hilarious. The psychiatrist who called Harry when they had problems, but the more I thought about it, the more normal it seemed. Everybody needs somebody they can call, even psychiatrists.

He made me blush when he talked about how teachers are called to their profession like priests or soldiers. We both teared as I recalled the days journey into Arlington National Cemetary. I told him about the parade and birthday celebration we attended for the Army’s 238th birthday and he told me about how he was having trouble on the simulator for the new program he was writing for an advanced chiller system. I had no idea what he was talking about, so I smiled and nodded like I do when my dad talks about programming his CNC machine.

As we put out our upteenth cigarette, we looked at each other and said our good nights. I extended my hand and said, “Nice to meet you, I’m Rachel.” He said,”Harry”. I traveled to the 2nd floor, he on to the 6th. I did not see Harry the next morning and we did not return to the hotel that night, but all the way home on the plane and now as I write, I regret not getting Harry’s last name or at least an e-mail address. I tried google, but I can’t remember the name of the company he works for and well there are a lot of Harrys in New Jersey.

I guess I just want to be like his psychiatrist friend, something in the way his voice was so calm even when he was commenting on the anatomy of a ref during the Red Sox game. He was just Harry form New Jersey with that great accent and all. Thank you Harry for allowing me to cry a bit on a stranger’s shoulder when the events of the day had become a little trying. I am sorry I didn’t get to ask you what your tattoos meant or wish you good luck on your next project.

I went to our nation’s capitol as most do, a pilgrimage of sorts to find our roots, to maybe touch a piece of history and maybe find some connection in this great melting pot of America. I did touch a piece of history. I stood in the same room as our constitution. I stood in the same house where George Washington died and I fell silent at the wall, but I think I found a treasure meeting Harry. I was able to share my journey with him and he a bit with me. We were simply two people at the same place and time. Two people who started a conversation and found some common ground. That we did it in the shadow of our forefathers is not a coincidence. I believe that it was an affirmation of what our forefathers set out to create. We may all have different backgrounds, different beliefs, but if we just communicate with one another, look what we can accomplish.

So where ever you are out there, Harry from New Jersey, good night and safe travels from East Texas.