What is Mr. Rochester's first name?

Lately I have a hankering to watch costume dramas.  The custom of 18^th and 19^th century England holds lots of appeal.  I imagine it does for lots of us.  So I have raked through Netflix, Amazon and HBOGo to find costume dramas to satisfy my yearning.  To date I have watched three versions of Jane Eyre and three of Wuthering Heights.

Now I have to admit that both of these novels intrigue young women in the height of their vulnerable adolescence, as they did for me.  I mean I spent years looking for Heathcliff and finding lots of duds.  The flavor of bad boys and penetrating stares and husky voices seemed mighty appealing to my young idealized state of mind. To rescue a man trapped by the forbidden ghosts of his past would seem ridiculous to my adult state today, but then I believed it highly likely I would find my Mr. Rochester.

Every young woman wants to save some man from his worst habits.  They want to be a shining beacon in their lost darkness.  That is the stuff of great romance and great romance novels.  Unfortunately, for us even Hollywood enjoys spreading that rumor. But with a more jaundiced eye I see now what becomes of those plot lines when transferred to the screen and watched over and over, blunting any romantic notion my female mind might entertain.

Jane Eyre is always cast as about one to two feet shorter than Rochester.  What is that about?  Does Charlotte Bronte describe her as diminutive?  It is most awkward in every scene of the movie.  She needs a ladder to reach his shoulders, much less kiss him.  How awful for both of the actors!  How can they convey the passion Charlotte Bronte intended when Rochester is reaching for a midget! Seriously.  The Michael Fassbender version, the most recent version of this story, is superior to the others in that she is almost the same height.  Thank goodness for that.  No step stools needed.  Another point of contention is that Rochester is always handsome.  He asks Jane if she thinks he is handsome and she replies no.  How can anybody look at Timothy Dalton, William Hurt or Michael Fassbender and say no? Now George C. Scott, yes.  He is ugly. And he does not improve with viewing.­­­

Each of the films starts at various points in the novel.  A secret I never told anyone is that when I have read the book, I always skip the part about Jane at her aunt’s home and life at Lowood.  Who cares?  Let’s get to the passion and possibly sex!  Well, no sex.  This is Charlotte Bronte.  Everything is PG throughout the entire novel.  But every young woman who reads the book gets all stirred up at the possibility of loving the mysterious and hard-to-live-with Mr. Rochester.  We must all be masochistic! We suffer right along with Jane in the secrets of the mansion and in Mr. Rochester’s strange behavior. 

On the night of the fire when she rescues his lordship, he tends to some secret chore and asks her to stay in his bedroom.  Ah, the reader or viewer thinks, now we are getting down to it.  But no.  She starts to leave and he asks if she will leave him so.  What kind of question is that?  What have you done Rochester to make her want to stay?  Jane is as perplexed as anyone, but her audience thinks they know what he wants.  But how could he want it?  Just out of the clear blue?  The man has no idea of romance. Really. So we are left longing again for passion and sex.  By this time, there should be some.

Eventually though it is worked out that he loves her. Ignore that screaming you hear, he tells her and us.  Yeah, well, any young woman knows better than to do that and would insist on him cleaning out his closets as it were.  But not our Jane. 

And thanks to a novel, The Wide Sargasso Sea, we know who is in the attic and why.  But most of the readers and viewers are not acquainted with that tome, so they, like Jane, are a bit befuddled by the mystery overhead.

Needless to say the wedding does not take place, much to the readers’ and viewers’ displeasure. Sort of like a kiss that gets interrupted or worse.  Ugh.  So off Jane goes into the damp, unforgiving Yorkshire moors which Bronte knew so well.  (In fact the whole damn family knew about them which is why they show up in every novel or poem the sisters wrote. Bleak, to say the least.)

Okay.  Another confession.  I usually skip this part too.  After all, Jane, or rather Bronte, is not going to marry Sinjean the minister.  He could only love God and rocks.  That’s about it.  But Charlotte Bronte really didn’t write this novel for romance.  She wanted us to understand a woman who wanted to make her own choices and live her own life unimpeded by society or circumstance. Okay. Got it.  Now where is the passion and sex? Yeah, gods.  The publishing world had just read Fielding’s Tom Jones.  Can’t we have some pepper in this pot of stew?

So, across the moors, she hears Rochester call her and off she goes, five thousand pounds richer than before. (Bronte inserted a Dickens moment even before there was Dickens. He is the master of coincidence.) Finds Rochester blinded and one handed in some versions, just blinded in others. And even with the scars on his face, the movies still can’t make Dalton, Hurt and Fassbender ugly.  Lost cause.

So with a sigh, our story/movie ends.  Satisfaction?  No, not really.  I guess professors of literature will tell me that the story holds much more than this.  But, really?  Who reads Jane Eyre for something other than entertainment, except graduate students hiding in the ivory towers of lit criticism?

Maybe I’ll turn to Wuthering Heights and try to find passion and sex?  Hmmmmm.

Now on with the show!

I can't get on my blog spot so I have to wait until my personal IT guy comes home to help me.
I wanted to write about something happy for a change. With the world in absolute chaos some mornings, I feel like we need some sunshine. (Ironically now in Port St. Lucie it is windy and rainy and the frogs are croaking.)
This past year I have discovered alternative music. My son says I sound like an eighth grader in my praise and excitement for Imagine Dragons and Arctic Monkeys. Well, okay. Laugh if you want, but one of the very important things in our lives is the discovery of something new and different. And for me this past year it was alternative music. This doesn't mean that I've put aside Randy Travis, George Strait or the Rolling Stones. It just means that the catalogue got larger. I can enjoy Rachmaninoff and then Train.
As we grow older, it is often difficult to find fresh and inventive ideas in any art form. I still read Jane Eyre again and again and any Jane Austen, but now I read Swedish and Norwegian authors with a vengeance. I look for stories about the Mideast. I read military stories about the current conflicts like i used to read all I could about Viet Nam. World War I has become one of my strongest interests.
I took to watching more of television programming that wasn't necessarily British. True Blood with its sex and romance captured my imagination. At my age it is fun to watch such shenanigans. And, of course, the series I was reading over 20 years ago is now on Starz network--Outlander. I have yearned a long time to see a visual Jamie and Claire. They got it absolutely right. Romance and married love does a body good!
I have enjoyed this past year. As I approach my 69th year, I think there is much to be grateful for. I have found prayer again and a modicum of faith. I have been fortunate to see my Alaska again and new places lke Montana and Idaho.
My heart has yearnings, yet unfulfilled, but I am learning patience with the process of living. Therein lies a great deal of contentment. — at Aboard the MS Westerdam, Inside Passage.

It's that time again.

Okay, it is time for school.  In the air is a current of expectation, mixed with soupcon of anxiety.  Here's how this works. The first week you make a seating chart which you will change in the second week which you will change every week until guidance gets all the kids sorted out which they had promised to do in spring last school year.  So do all charts in pencil! 

Then there are the rules you have to establish for your classroom.  Don't go overboard!  Remember they have to be able to remember them.  Here is the rule:  this is not a democracy, so get a grip! Don't even worry about the bathroom rule as someone in greater authority than you will tell you when and how they can go to the bathroom. Same goes for late assignments.  Someone will shame you into rejecting them. Someone will also tell you how to set up your grading system.  So don't worry!

Next we have supplies.  Some teachers look for the perfect lesson planner.  Whoever designed them has never written one lesson plan.  And most teachers wear glasses after a certain age (which we won't mention here), so the space allocated for plans is so small that the teachers cannot actually read whatever they have written.  Every teacher I have ever known goes into Staples, Office Depot, Office Max or Wal Mart and stares at all the writing implements.  Which one, she or he asks silently, will raise less of a knot on my finger when I grade?  How many pens will I need?  Will the department supply me with any?  Will I like them?  Will they be so old, they have no ink in them?  And then there are the pencils.  Teachers stare at the box of 100 and think I am not buying pencils for my students this year.  It ain't happening!  So they put two of the boxes in their cart.  Whatever!

The issue of paper is also on the agenda.  The teacher wonders if buying notebook paper is necessary.  Will students come with paper?  The answer is NO.  So if you don't want them writing on the desk top or their arms, buy paper.  However, if a teacher sees a student taking notes in class, sit down before you faint.  This vision is rare and often absent in a class of 25 or 30.

Now the teacher proceeds to computer and xerox paper. A friend of mine once said that paper to a teacher is like milk for a baby--absolutely essential.  Yet the first item to be cut back in a lot of classrooms is paper for copying or printing.  Best bet--go together with someone and buy a box of paper.  It will last a good five to eight weeks and then you can buy more.

The conundrum teachers now face is textbooks.  Where are they?  Does the school offer enough to assign to each student?  Interestingly enough, some districts don't assign a book to a student because he or she will lose it, never bring it back to class or leave it at a friend's house. So if you are a teacher who offers assignments requiring reading, half of your lesson plan is accomplished.  Of course, you never ask how old the texts might be.  After all literature never changes, only chemistry and physics.  History never changes, only biology.  And, of course, the teacher's copy weighs more than last week's groceries and so by the end of the year, you see this muscle in the arm of overweight, anxious teachers who look like they have been lifting only one barbell all year!

Now we come to the best part--inservice.  I have never understood just what this term means for administrators.  Who are we in service too?  This is not Downton Abbey (although we could wish for a Carson to handle all our mishaps). Does anybody ever get anything out of an inservice?  The data they throw up on the screen is the same data you are going to look at at intervals in the school year.  Why rush things?  What gauls teachers is that this time could be better spent in the classroom running down textbooks and making the computer work. So you sit for a day or half a day and try not to fall asleep since this is the first morning in nine weeks that you have gotten up before the sun!  Teachers congregate at these meetings according to rank and file.  Most of them sit toward the back where it is dark and they can snooze undetected. The coaches seem to collect in one small group; the social studies teachers do the same.  The English department spreads out all over the place looking for a comfortable seat away from other people. And then there are the newly hired and inner circle people who find the front and have stars in their eyes because this is going to be "the best year ever." Everyone else feels sympathy for them.  After the first nine weeks, or sooner, their world will collide with reality.  It's harsh!

Now for those of you who don't teach and would never enter a classroom again, let me tell you this side of the story.  Teachers go through hell to get ready for your kids.  They agonize over IEP's and 504 plans because they want those students to get the very best they can.  They consider how to set goals for all students to achieve and master.  They try to be original and creative, but in this climate most teachers have little leeway in instruction.  They do their best to accomplish a positive and reinforcing experience for your son or daughter. Give them the credit they deserve.  Support them with all you can, including better conditions, more materials and a solid income. 

Otherwise, you will be part of every teacher's back-to-school dream of death and destruction.  They not only dream of teaching naked, but they also dream of the kid from hell and the parent who spawned him. 

Teaching has been my life for the past 45 years and this has been the pattern of it for all of those years.  The kid from hell I took under my wing and taught him to laugh and to learn.  That was my job, as it is every teacher's job. Have a good and safe school year, all of you!

Sunday morning coming down

Writers write.  They gather words like field hands gather beans.  They carefully toss them into "baskets" and take them to be processed for us to pour over in quiet consternation or contentment.  But who are they really?  Do they all  gather for cocktails this afternoon in a hotel in downtown New York or Chicago? Or better yet a pub in Chelsea?  I read the New York Times Book Review every Sunday and wonder.  How did those books get there?  Does anyone really read them?  Do they read them and then go to dinner parties or cocktail parties and impress others with the hours they have spent reading those books?  Does anyone care?  Is there an award one receives for reading the most books on the New York Times Book Review list?  Something like the certificates you got when you were ten years old and it was summer and your mother made you go to the library to get some books for nap time after the beach or swimming pool?  What is good writing?  What is good reading?  Should we be  punished with erudite novels about impossible people or should we be able to plunge deeply into the fictional life of a compelling character who wins despite the odds?  I prefer characters who are imperfect but have incredible moral compasses.  So I don't read about Wall Street or Washington.  I love mysteries because I like not knowing until the very end(sort of like Christianity--the not knowing til the end part).  I used to read romance until I discovered that it was the greatest fiction of all.  Overweight men and women hardly ever inherited their maiden aunt or uncle's mansion at a seaside resort and turned it into a bed and breakfast and then fell head over heels in love with their first guest! More like they baked muffins and made breakfast for slim, "don't each much breakfast" types who left it all for "staff" (that would be the overweight heir) to clean up after. My friend Jane would say I was being too hard on romance fiction, but she understands escapism; I don't. Biographies can be annoying or enlightening.  Some historic figures should remain shrouded in the mists of time; others need broad daylight for comprehension.  I've never been compelled to read "character driven" fiction.  Often the plot is thin and I wonder why I should get to know this character.  What am I learning about myself or my fellow humans through this character's affectations and discriminations?  So the quest for good reading and good writing continues.  And maybe that's why we read and why writers write.  The journey to share stories which may or may not appeal is arduous and risky.  I suppose if the writer is willing to risk exposure, I should risk exposure too.  It's a fair trade.

Whatever took so long??

It takes time to think about what to say to readers. I don't have that many followers but there are the faithful and few and I owe you some time. Retirement has been the theme of the year. Making up my mind happened just before state testing windows of April and May. I wanted so badly to teach a selection of short stories I had collected online from the Library of Congress, but there was absolutely no time. It was devastating for the second year in a row. So I resigned myself to the situation and retired. After all, 45 years seems to be enough of me. Some of it had to do with my mother's death this past January. Some of it had to do with my brother's retirement and some of it had to do with exhaustion. Sometimes the hour comes when you notice the hour glass is not turning over. There is no more sand. In my time to consider what I wanted to do as a result of these influences, I decided to become a student. Below is the blog I wrote the day I came to that realization.

May 30, 2013

Learning for the sake of learning.  Ahh, there’s pleasure in that.  To think for the sake of thinking.  To think about thinking.  To form a vision of the world from ancient times til now and see the cord that stretches from that point to this.  In Fiddler on the Roof, Tevya sings about sitting in the synagogue all day “ and that would be the sweetest life of all.” Yes. This is the sweetest moment in one’s life—to arrive at a place of thought and reflection for the sake of thought and reflection. 

I don’t have to take a test or write an essay on what I study or learn.  I don’t have to shape and form my opinion to concur with others or anyone.  I am free to move among ideas and see the shape and essence of them without bother.  And to move at my pace.  Days, weeks, months will pass and I am still on page one and what does it matter?  If I understand page one, do I have to answer to anyone for page two or two thousand?  I accomplish what I accomplish.  This is so breathtaking.  Is this the definition of freedom? 

Does all this come because I have paid my dues to reality?  Because I have given my 45 years to the growth and development of others?  Because I have raised my children?  Because I have sustained a successful partnership?  Whatever debt I feel I have paid, I now walk out of that cell a free person. 

This is the journey I was meant to take.  I am excited, liberated and at peace.  This inner journey will be mine alone with brief stops to nourish the realities of life I cannot nor do not want to escape—husband, children, friends.  But, at last, I have my journey.  Postcards will arrive from time to time telling you of my stops and starts and stays.  But don’t envy me.  I believe we each find this place and if we are prepared to recognize it, we may enter.  Bon voyage.

This is dedicated to Nick, my children,  Ann Bain and Dahna Willis (both mentors to me).

Thank you!

Tomorrow is 10-10-10 and I will be 65. I think it is time to say "thank you" for the many and varied gifts I have received and none too soon, I say.

Through the years I have had many gifts from friends, relatives, family, students and educators. Today, although it is not about the classroom I write, I would like to thank them for the real "classroom" where I have learned, hopefully, to be a happier and more fulfilled person.

My mother was a professional educator in every way. I thank her for the model she gave me and my brother about teaching and connecting with students. From her we learned to appreciate the custodian and the superintendent, the students and the parents, the football coach and the band director. We learned the value of Friday night lights and a packed gym in January. She showed us that real teaching often happens after dismissal and real caring comes from attending solemnities required of community members.

My father taught me common sense. And patience. And forgiveness.

Of course, I have to thank all the teachers along the way. Mrs. Ortiz taught me not to lie. Mrs. Pittard read the Hardy Boys to us every day after lunch. Miss Parks taught me to write about what I know and Miss Smith taught me to be myself. Madame Brackett opened my dreams to French. Mr. Bertrand taught me confidence. Wherever they are now, I hope they know I have carried them with me all these years.

Three friends in high school helped me feel less isolated--Mary Jean Fitzpatrick, Julie Joffray and Cheryl Horecker. I dated twice in high school, neither remarkable but Bill Turkington is still the nicest person you can know. Everyone knows about my crush on Jon Swanson and no February 13 goes by that I don't think of him and hope he is well. He was "dreamy" and now he's bald. I would probably still be tongue-tied if I met him.

College friends like Patty Shelton were important and tragic. We parted ways over a boy. How stupid of us but how typical of us. She arranged for my first date with my first real sweetheart--Peter Torgrimson. Wherever he is today, I apologize for not understanding your subtleties. A mistake I rued for some time. But not today. It would have never worked.

Memphis and students who taught me how to be a minority. How to deal with racist slurs and intolerance and Dr. King who gave me the example to share with my students. To the class of 1971 at Southside High School, I thank you. Vicki Collins, wherever you are, I hope you got that job life guarding!

Three ex-husbands and California. My roommates on S. 10th--thanks for the party, continuous and gay! My brother had an especially nice time. They introduced me to Yosemite. For that I am and always will be grateful. It is my spiritual home and I was fortunate to work there with Charmaine Gerecke and Dianne Mueller. Two wonderful women who helped me put Viet Nam behind me and look to nature for my life.

From there to Missouri. I would not have survived the next few years without the friendship of Pat Stokely and, in turn, her family. She made me watch the evening news again and taught me about small town intolerance. She was a true friend. And a great cook! Thank you for many, many happy memories and to John Brown for being a beautiful dog!

Those three husbands all turned out to be flukes. I was much too young to consider that I wanted to stay in a relationship with one person for any length of time. But I do thank Bob Polack for my son and for the long Jungian fest that was our marriage. Despite it all, I think I explored a lot of my own self in those few years and was rewarded for my pain and suffering. My marriage now is much richer for the earlier mistakes. I am thankful for lessons learned in no other way which make me more capable and willing to share and grow with one person.

To the Metzgers, the Bains and the Weltmans--my other families. You each, in turn, have given me a "home" when I felt I had none. I regret that time and distance now keep us parted. But you and your children have touched me deeply in the richest of ways and I carry those treasures always.

Affton--Mary, Jane, Karen, Marilyn, Renee, Sandy and Gay--sisters and mentors. You have forgiven me in my frustration many times. You have offered me a helping hand, a shoulder to lean on, an angel to walk with me, advice and comfort, and the acknowledgment that I was a good teacher and person. From my heart I thank you for those years and the continued blessings of your presence.

As for today--Stella, Mercedes, Erika--new sisters, companions along the way. Betty Van Rees, wherever you are, you need to come back to us. Mandy Horton for teaching me new ways of helping kids and Linda Pelli for spiritual guidance.

The families I have known along my way--the Blasburgs, Derek especially, the Dierkers, the Jasons (who are hosting my birthday party tonight). Thank you for supporting me and believing in me as someone who could lead your children to higher ground.

As for all the students, going all the way back to 1967, you have been amazing gifts. Each of you came wrapped in significant ways and you challenged me to take you in other directions. I am proud to say we had a great journey together.

Last for my husband and children--who goes through life with so many blessings? All of us but do we ever stop to say thanks? I want the people of my life to know this because many of them I will never see again. For those I see daily, thanks is always there. My husband Nick is the best gift I have ever received. My St. Louis family knows what we two went through to pull our lives together. Wasn't easy. John, my oldest, is a constant reminder that I can have a positive influence and I do have a legacy in him. He is my joy. My step-children are frequent reminders that starting over at 50 was not such a bad idea after all. I love them dearly. We have had a lot of fun "growing up."

And so tomorrow I celebrate 65 years as a visitor here, gathering up the goodies I can and trying not to be tempted to do something foolish. I only hope I have many more people to thank before this ends. I would welcome the lessons and gifts!

Small is Better

Good Morning! I have just about finished my New York Times, but my husband just shared with me Thomas Friedman's column "We're No. 1(1)!" In the article Friedman relates that Newsweek's poll places the United States as number 11 of the best countries in the world. Number one is Finland, and in descending order: Switzerland, Sweden, Australia, Luxembourg, Norway, Canada, Netherlands, Japan, Denmark. Do you see a pattern? Categories used to rank these countries are: education, health, quality of life, economic dynamism, and political environment.

Friedman makes the point that until we return to the values of the greatest generation (my mother and father's generation--the ones that won a more compelling war (we were defending ourselves, not being the aggressors) we will continue to not make the top five of that list. I would like to offer my reasons for our lost situation.

Small is better. Smaller communities, smaller schools, smaller religious places, smaller downtowns, smaller industries, smaller transportation, smaller farms, smaller stores, smaller, smaller, smaller. Today we are lost in a vast and wickedly expanding world that will not and does not slow down for anything or anyone. Words like "development" and "SUV" are a genuine part of our mindset.

I am best acquainted with the school situation. I have contended for all of my teaching career that smaller schools were the answer. I began in Memphis in a high school with an enrollment of almost 2000. I moved to a high school in Missouri with a population of over 1500. Finally, I taught in a school in St. Louis with a population of 700 and one of 400. Only in the last two schools did I know all the faces I saw in the passing period. I knew the teachers from the industrial arts area in the back of the building to the math teachers at the upper end of the hall way. I knew the modern language teachers, the science teachers. I even knew teachers in other buildings in the district. Imagine being able to call on a teacher in the third grade for help with a student whose family she had known long before me. Can you imagine that? In every other school I have been part of, I have known only those teachers on my planning period and that was because we all ended up having to go to the bathroom at the same time every day. My principals in those smaller schools also knew me. They knew what went on in my room and whenever there was a problem, they personally came to me and gave me every opportunity to address the issue, and because they knew me well, they defused any situation long before it became an issue. I appreciated that.

Today I teach in another "mega" school. I have been there five years and still cannot recognize teachers and what they teach. I have served on committees, have been at social functions, been to sporting events and visited the planning area, and still I don't know many, if not the majority, of them. Heck, I don't even know all of the people in my department! What does that do for me and my students? What does that do for students and their families?

It is the same in our communities. Do we know the neighbors? Do we have neighborhood block parties? Do we visit one another in times of grief or loss? Do we go to funerals? Do we visit the sick? Do we take dinner to a shut-in neighbor? Who do we know at church besides the people who regularly sit in the pew with us or in front of us? Do we know the people who go to a different service, earlier or later than us? Does our grocer know us? Does our postal carrier know us? Can we name the people at our bank who know us or whom we know? I carry dozens of business cards, but have no recollection of the face that goes with the card. I just know to ask for that person-if that person still works at that branch or for that business.

I know it is nearly impossible to take back the time and reduce our situations. The recession might actually be good for that, but I doubt we will learn. I envy people who live and thrive in small towns. But small towns are drying up. When Wal-Mart moves in or Lowe's, people gravitate toward the big box store leaving the small business owners on main street to die a torturous death. This death reflects the death of many a small system, like the family farm, the family business, the family.

We are quickly losing ground. We think we are better communicators because of the web, but mostly what we communicate to one another is gossip and innuendo. And it spreads like wildfire, worse than small town gossip. At least in a small town you knew who to avoid telling something to unless you wanted everyone to know it. On the web you have no idea where your thoughts are going. We believe whatever a stranger tells us and we never really open up a conversation with anyone we know for fear they will leave us alone and afraid.

So what is the answer? Small is better. Whatever chance we will have of being a great place to live, we have to have a better system of values. Wanting it all and having it all is really not a good way to live. It definitely leaves a lot of people out of the process. And that is the value we live by today. Surely we can find a way to regain ground with values that serve us better. Besides, I really would like to know all the faces I see in the passing period. They are the members of my "small town" and they should know we are together a community.