Gail's Blog

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 ...