Gail's Blog

Along the two miles of boardwalk along the Atlantic Ocean in Spring Lake, N.J. are visible reminders of the power of government work projects in hard times. The WPA put artists to work as well as construction workers. This tile is one of several still lining the brick walls along the boardwalk near the snack pavillions in Spring Lake, which were carved by artists employed by the Works Projects Administration. The tiles represent the style of the time, simple, strong and direct. It reflects the spirit of the people who worked for WPA. WPA was initiated by Franklyn Delano Roosevelt to put jobless Americans back to work, and its scope was far greater than anything we've seen since. The Federal Theatre Project put playwrites, actors, directors and stagehands back to work. The photographers employed by the WPA fanned out across the nation to document the lives of our people in their struggles and strengths. Dorothea Lange and Walker Evans were just two of the photographers who allowed t

Once upon a time, our preschool hosted a Thanksgiving Feast, with preschoolers dressed in paper bag Indian vests, and construction paper Pilgrim hats. We ate turkey, dressing, and the rest, most of which went uneaten by the children. So the annual event became a "Pow wow". The children attend in their Thanksgiving regalia, but carry non-perishable food for a "campfire", food to go to a food bank right afterwards. This is a nice change because rather than cook and serve leftovers to the homeless, which is admirable but messy, we send food to a food bank for use after the Thanksgiving food coffers are emptied. Over the years the pilgrims have disappeared! Pilgrim costumes are a pain in the neck to make, and Indian head-dresses and beads are easy, so teachers, ever looking for ways to cut after-hours labor, went all-Indian. Then one year, a class came as turkeys! They have been coming that way ever since. This totally blew my literal mind. I kept thinking that dinner w

She made it into rehab. The program is funded by Fairfax County, and, with luck, will survive budget cuts. It is an effective drug and alcohol rehabiliation program for those who are motivated to do the work. And she is motivated. She talks about her last chance. She says she doesn't want to be on the streets again. She dissects her own motivations, feelings, responsibilities and mistakes with the precision of a surgeon. So far she's lost and gained friends, gained and lost privileges, and worked very hard. She's never worked as hard. She honors me by making me a "screened" visitor, and recently, by asking me to come to family group. Visiting recently, I sat with her outside and heard all that she'd been going through, and suddenly she brightened and asked me what I was doing. She listened like a mature young woman. We laughed! People passed. She waved them over to introduce me to them. "This is my Godmother" she said. I liked the sound of that. I

Preschool Halloween parade. Parents rush in right before with siblings in tow. Undressing and dressing commence. Little ones cry or stomp, refuse to wear some part of their costume. Parents coax, cajole, praise. Everyone is taking pictures, even we teachers. How many pictures do I have of four year olds in Halloween costumes from twenty years of teaching? We walk in a line down to the school office for our first "treat", an apple, then on to the church office for our second treat, a pencil. Then down to the Social Hall for a few more, only one of which is actual candy. We dance one teacher's favorite, The Chicken Dance. Next we dance to mine, Ghostbusters. I secretly think my choice is much more fun. The children seem to agree. The princesses (they are all princesses this year) grab each others' hands and circle, giggling. The boys bob up and down, not too sure Batman or Spiderman would be caught doing something so undignified. Not everyone dances. Some are already c

Charlie is our bunny (the picture doesn't do him justice) who is the exact same color as my good friend's late cat, who was a Russian Blue. He is small, and he barely sheds, a rare feat for a bunny, as my family's experience with rabbits amply supports. He is perfect in his Charlie-ness. Our former bunny, Ed (as in Edward Hopper) was perfect in his Ed-ness. Ed climbed up on our sofas and looked over our shoulders while we read. He ran across the family room carpet, not just hopping, but leaping into the air with verve. He hassled our poodles, running under Bear, the more timid one, and then, when Bear tried to escape, running under him again. I believe Ed considered our dogs as his own personal playmates, a conviction the dogs did not share. Charlie is more quiet. How we acquired him was like this: Last winter, Ed became ill. Rabbits are terribly prone to digestive stasis, since they do not cough up fur, but ingest it. We treated stasis for a day or two and then called an e

She started crying two weeks ago and couldn't stop. So she wouldn't go down to meals at Sunrise because she'd cry, and "people would be annoyed". "How can you tell they are annoyed, Mom?" "Because they ignore me." "Maybe they are ignoring you because they don't know what else to do?" "No. They are annoyed. I'll stay in my room." She stopped eating, and called my sister over and over. She cried, sobbed and gulped like an abandoned child. She wouldn't watch TV because, "I used to watch TV with Gordon." She wouldn't read because, "I read when I was with Gordon". Gordon, her husband of 28 years, died in March. She went to Sunrise directly from a stay in a nursing facility where she lived while Gordon died slowly, with much struggle, and a conviction that he'd make it, and take care of her again. He promised her. She believed him whole-heartedly. She misses him dreadfully. But she won't

Last night my sister admitted my mom to the pysch ward again. This morning the clouds drift, the sun shines, a cardinal alights on a branch. The coffee maker burbles. We read the paper and giggle at the absurd story about Rabbis and polititians smuggling Israeli kidneys to the U.S. My daughter leaves for work. Feeds the bunny on her way out. Says, "See ya!". And my sister says Mom is feeling calmer already.

She was right between my two daughters. A year and a half older than one and a year and a half younger than the other. We lived in a townhouse courtyard, one of many in a development originally built for the workers coming to DC for the war effort. The "units" had been redone in the '70's and we were living there shortly after. Her house was in the back of the courtyard, a parking lot in the center. She lived with her Mother, Grandparents, and Uncle. We lived with ourselves. She never wanted to come to our house because I supervised them too much. She liked it better when she could have my daughters over where they could all get into mischief, until her Grandma, my friend, would call and ask for help. There she'd be, jumping on the bed, laughing, because she knew she didn't have to clean up a mess they'd made because her Grandmother couldn't "make" her. I was supposed to help, but all I could do was take my children home. She would be out of

I sang in four Synogogues in Cleveland, before moving to Washington. My first "temple job" was, strangely enough, the place of worship of my mother's family. Mom went to temple with her Grandmother, sitting in a pew next to her grandma, listening to Rabbi Abba Hillel Silver, a leading light of the Reform movement in America and a leading proponent of Zionism. How I came to sing at Silver's was this: My voice teacher, Mel Hakola, was "cantorial soloist" at Silver's. Mel was Finnish, but he'd been the cantorial soloist (a cantor substitute) for many years. Mel said they needed an alto, and I got the job. It was an experience never to be forgotten, singing in Hebrew, a language I didn't know, inspite of my ancestry, hidden behind and above the Bema, and hidden from the congregation. My voice teacher sang the Sh'ma, and all the other important service music. We sang responses. A good Jewish service is much more participatory for the choir than a

I was reading James Lilek's blog (which Blogger.com wouldn't allow for some reason, so I couldn't post it) about his home town of Fargo, ND. He has a picture of downtown Fargo back in "the day", as they say now. It is a highly focused, wide-angle black and white picture from a good ol' manual SLR film camera. (Am I prejudiced for the old cameras? You betcha!) He muses on how the businesses along the street were family-owned and run the whole time he was growing up. It is a kind of anti-Walmartian, possibly sentimental piece about a uniqueness in our cities that has all but vanished. I could say alot about this whole idea because I feel very much the same way. But time marches on, as they say, and, like SLR film cameras, uniqueness in home towns is mostly a thing of the past. The picture at left isn't a store in downtown Cleveland, but a Presbyterian church. You can see how the city built itself around the Presbyterians, and they didn't go away. The chu

I have such affection for this story. Alexandra (Bo-bo) Fuller grew up in Rhodesia as it turned into Zimbabwe. Her parents loved Africa, and she grew up loving it deeply. Yet there were so many racial and political issues going on, and a civil war to boot, that you might think that it would be a sad book. But it isn't. It is a story of great heart, courage, and humor. The tug I feel reminds me of my long abiding and deep love for my Grandfather, who left Turkey to escape the draft of young Greek boys. Like many of the Africans in Fuller's story, and like her own family, he lived with terror (his family was massacred after he left) and blood. Yet he gave us, his grandchildren, a deep sense of identity. He became a part of us. His stories became ours, and he made us laugh. His music-making, and dancing excited us. When I read about smoking (yes!), plants, cooking, or dancing in Fuller's memoir, I think of him. When I read about humor amidst terror, I think of him. This char

This is about a recent situation that has become a way of life. My husband lost his job (through no fault of his own) in December, and has become a fixture of the household, specifically in the kitchen, where he uses his laptop. For the first few weeks, in spite of the seriousness of our new situation, it was kind of fun. We both joined Facebook and sat together at the kitchen island "chatting" with friends and trading stories. He told me about different job possibilities he was considering applying for. We were bonding. Six months later, I find myself wishing he would just get back to work! Any work! I make a salad. He asks for some for lunch for himself, too, but could I please put some leftover steak in it? I don't like steak in salad. But I do it. I am working hard on my Blackboard site for teaching, and he asks, innocently, "What else are you going to do today?" Later, "You should go to the gym. You can't just work all day." The dishwasher get

We met again, my Infants & Toddlers class and I, at a special place for home daycare providers. Many of these ladies are from countries such as Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Iran. Walking into my classroom is like going to a foreign country. They speak with lilting, sweet voices, much like the Greek ladies I knew as a child. They ae eager to learn, and are very particular about how you teach them. They have lots of suggestions. I feel like I'm in a big, warm meeting where I am the teacher, but also a servant. I enjoy them. I am frustrated by them (they have a habit of explaining and even translating to each other while I'm talking). But I am in my element. They care very deeply about what they do, and take learning very seriously.

Teaching children: Annunciation Greek Orthodox Church. Cleveland, Ohio

This church is where I was baptised in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. My brother was baptised there as well. I remember sitting in a pew, horrified by his screams. Orthodox infant baptism is full immersion, done by the godparent (in his case, my father's mother). It was very upsetting to a 2 1/2 year old! Even so, I loved this church. Sitting in a Greek Orthodox church is like sitting in heaven. God isn't a very personal God there, but an all-encompassing pressence, permeating the living and dead. The smell of incense, the chant in the incomprehensible and yet familiar language of one's ancestors, the gorgeous icons and paintings, especially the universal living Christ on the dome looking down, all contribute to the sense of being in heaven and earth at the same time. This is, at least, how it was for me as a child. The Greeks don't have women priests, though. That is meaninful to me in the Episcopal Church. I've come to love the Episcopal liturgy as