JWalking: The Blog

T his week, we've been coping with the loss of the father of a close friend of CJ's. It was one of those incidences of seemingly run-of-the-mill symptoms turned into vicious infection whose effects could not be altered or stopped. Very sudden and very tragic. Though we don't know the family really well, the fact that a 14-year-old girl lost her dad resonates here. I had very few encounters with the dad. Whenever he dropped off or picked up his daughter after a visit or a party, he was always pleasant, smiling, polite. He always treated CJ well, too. His occupation was one I admire--teaching children and youth how to play and share music. It takes a certain demeanor and a great amount of patience to bring out the best in kids learning to play instruments. He definitely had those, and the kids he taught had great respect and admiration for him. There is one memory of him that I will cherish whenever I see his daughter. It was a middle school talent show night. Several of

P art and parcel of the summer schedule at the J's is RJ2's month-long+ tenure in Extended School Year, or ESY. One of the things we discovered early on in her school career is that she needs to keep school in her blood so she doesn't forget what it's like to be at school. Generally successful. This year, challenging. Mondays--especially challenging. Yesterday was no exception, as RJ2 struggled to accomplish her work. The weekly Monday reports from the teacher were not encouraging and difficult to hear time and time again upon dismissal time in the school's front lobby. "We'll try again tomorrow," is what RJ2 often says on days when she knows she hasn't been at her best. Her aide sighs a smile, as do I. [It was all I could do not to lose it laughing in the hallway a week or so ago when RJ2 flew into her classroom announcing in her biggest voice, "I'M STILL HERE!" Oh, what her teacher and aide were thinking....] Today, RJ2 starte

Remembering the Magic We packed bags of dreams, junk food, and clothes,  and set out for Pennsylvania. They called it a "retreat," but four consonants, three vowels can't capture six days of truly living. We bled Mountain Dew and grass stains, lived for running and jumping, and being whole. Being young. We found shortcuts through the woods and ran through with bobbing glow sticks under a full moon. We covered ourselves in war paint-- mud and shaving cream And we would always sing songs of praise, sometimes hand-in-hand amongst the burning spotlights of the stage, but mostly through shouts and laughs of jubilation. They asked us to challenge our thoughts, to believe in the unbelievable. We congregated on stone steps one night to put faith in the unseen. The last night brought tears as we exchanged handshakes and parting words. And under another brilliant moon, I filled a glass jar with fireflies in my head. Memories, glowing brightly.

I f it weren't for the date on the newspaper clipping, I'd forget that I have an anniversary to celebrate. August 1978--35 years ago, I picked up handbells for the first time ever. It was the year in between 8th grade and freshman year of high school. Not exactly the time when you think about taking on new things, other than your course schedule. Graduation had just marked the end of a huge year--first term paper in English; Confirmation class; playing on the school's inaugural girls softball team; algebra; yearbook staff; a pool party with friends. But, a call came in to break up the summer of "life on pause." The woman who had directed the Junior Choir at our church called to talk with my mom. Bettye Lee had served this choir for years, embracing kids in that challenging "approaching and into middle school age" with a combination of humor, strictness and, always, professionalism--or, as close to that as you get with this age of kid. I was for

I t started out as the good parent thing to do: reading the E -mail update from the middle school lan guage arts teacher about the current topics the kids were studying, projects, due dates and the like. Th e teacher even went so far as to question the parents about their experience with said topics . "What is your writing process like?" "What are your thoughts on revision?" It then became an opportunity for me to share, thinking the teacher would use the responses as part of her teaching material. I took on a few questions in some detail. What I wasn't expecting was the foll ow-up E-mail from the teacher, asking me to be a guest speaker to share directly with some classes about my experience with writing. Suddenly, I had a Dad moment, as in my Dad . Being a now-retired professor , he loves any opportunity to get back into a classroom environment to share his stuff! I definitely didn't accept my invitation with the same kind of confidence and