Tuesdays for Mrs. Johnson

When I missed a serve on game point, my volleyball coach yelled. When I missed a free throw, my basketball coach yelled. When my mom noticed my first tattoo at age 20, she yelled. Teachers didn’t yell at me often, but I remember when one did.

On a fall day 29 years ago, teammates and I were loitering in the halls of Hawthorne Junior High before volleyball practice. Someone learned that lockers could be opened by wiggling them just right. In our pre-practice boredom, we tried it on the group closest to the gym and next to Mrs. Johnson’s room.

I’d heard legends in the halls of Mrs. Johnson. She scared me. I avoided passing her between classes, and I cautiously looked at my schedule each semester fearing I’d be sentenced to her English class.

While we fiddled with lockers, we didn’t realize Mrs. Johnson was in her room. She heard our racket, surfaced like a snake and snarled, “what do you think you are doing?”

We weren't stealing. We were snooping and trying to beat the system. I didn’t think we were in the wrong, so I tried some sarcasm and humor with Mrs. Johnson—one of the dumber moves of my youth. She shook her finger and shouted a string of rhetorical questions as she slid toward me. I wanted my mommy.

When I began attending a new church a few years ago, I noticed Mrs. Johnson sitting toward the front. The sight of her slight build and gray hair still triggered terror in my gut. The fear of God paled in comparison to my teenage fear of Mrs. Johnson.

Mrs. Johnson has got to be in her 80’s by now. I worry that although I’ve offered a few reminiscing comments at coffee hours, she really wouldn’t grasp how grateful I am for that confrontation years ago.She imparted that although what I was doing may not have been punishable by law, my time could be better spent. Those face to face seconds forced me to be accountable for my actions. It didn’t matter what others were doing. It mattered what I was doing.  She could have ignored us and kept on grading, but she didn’t. She paid attention. It took me longer than I’d like to admit that Mrs. Johnson wasn’t mean; I was wrong.

Today when she talks about her years teaching, Mrs. Johnson exudes a kindness and love of people that illustrate how deeply she loves the kids she taught, praised and scolded. Recently she told me that she looks forward to Tuesdays because both American Falls Mayor Marc Beitia and I are former Hawthorne students and she loves to see us all grown up and involved in our communities. No pressure here, Mayor, but Mrs. Johnson reads (and loves) your every word.

Tuesdays are about to get a little makeover for Mrs. Johnson as my friend Susie Matsuura is going to share this weekly space with me. Susie isn’t a former Hawthorne Hawk, but she is a lifelong Idahoan with a great sense of humor and humanity who is driven by kindness and her sense of right. Susie is a lot like Mrs. Johnson, and I look forward to reading what she writes.

Steve and the Magic Binki

If you listen closely, you can hear whines and groans throughout the nation as summer vacation draws to a close and the first day of school looms.  I’m writing this week from the Oregon Coast on an end of summer trip with a friend and her three kids. The long hours in the car called for the “binki.”

I learned about the binki on a camping trip years ago with 17 of my closest friends. The weekend rules were simple.  Chip in money for food. Take a turn cooking and cleaning up.  Have fun. No whining. If you whined, you had to wear a pacifier on a string until you caught someone else whining. 

Remembering the magic of that binki, I procured one for our Oregon trip. The 14 year old girl made it the entire first day including nine and a half hours in the car without a single whine. She has two wriggly, squirrelly, and gross (cute) little brothers and not a whiney peep. The binki is magic.

The binki comes with rules. No poking or taunting anyone to rid yourself of the binki. You may state that you are cold or hungry or that a sibling is bothering you, but if your tone is questionable, the group will vote. The driver (me) may whine or curse freely from behind the wheel due to the insensitivity or ignorance of other drivers.  You do not have to wear it while swimming or sleeping, but if you end the day with it, you begin the next with it. If you refuse to wear the binki or throw a tantrum when caught whining, you lose access to all electronic devices for the remainder of the day.

I told the kids a story about Officer Steve Williams. Steve was a Pocatello police officer and champion body builder when he was tragically killed in a boating accident nine years ago. During one of his turns with the binki on that camping trip, a county sheriff visited our campsite. Steve was the first to rise from afternoon campfire circle and approach the vehicle. His denim shorts, tight tank top and chiseled muscles accentuated his swagger that surfaced with the appearance of a fellow officer.  Steve forgot he was wearing the bikini and our giggles and gasps didn’t even alert him.

Steve was one of the most dignified and proud people I’ve ever met. If HE could wear the binki, WE could wear the binki. A couple times early on, I exaggerated a whine to model owning up, laughing at myself, recognizing when I could change my attitude, and accepting consequences, but I’ve also been caught in plenty legitimate whines.

I wore the darn thing while I checked into a motel, got gas, asked for directions and picked up take out. Everyone whines sometimes, but our little vacation troop whined a whole lot less this week. Hopefully it’ll sustain until we return home and the kids remember summer vacation is almost over. What? Summer is almost over? Are you serious? But, but, but… Oh, give me the binki.

The Three-legged Step Turtle

My box turtle Myrtle turned 31 last week. I talk about Myrtle all the time, but I’ve also got another turtle whose story should be told. His name is Tripod. He’s missing a hind foot.

Tripod was a gift from my friend and former coach Alice Heberlein in about 1998. I don’t even remember the exact date or year, and as someone who remembers all sorts of birthdays, I feel terrible about that. I should feel terrible! What kind of mom am I?  I’ve grown up all my life hearing jokes and thin insults about being the red headed step child, but in my house it’s more like the three-legged step turtle.

I tried to track down the origins of the phrase “red headed step child” but the internet wasn’t all that helpful.  The expression is used to indicate a person or thing that is neglected, unwanted, or mistreated. Tripod is certainly none of those, but in all my talks of Myrtle, he might appear to be.

Wanting to cheer me up after a losing season, Coach Heberlein handed me a paper bag after a junior varsity volleyball tournament. I was the JV coach, and our final record was 4-21. I was a good player, but as far as coaching goes, the wins were scarce. My players had fun (I think), and they learned about teamwork, work ethic, and sportsmanship when you lose, but we didn’t get many lessons in sportsmanship when you win.

When the paper bag started to wiggle, I was so confused.  So were the girls and giggles ensued as I reached in and pulled out a wriggling reptile. We should probably have a quick lesson on how giving pets to someone may not be the best idea, especially a turtle, because with one at 31 and the other now 16 or 17 years old, the recipient is in for quite a commitment. Luckily Tripod has been a wonderful, spunky addition to the family.

Every year when August hits, I can’t help but recall my years in volleyball as a player, a coach and as a brand new mom to Tripod. Even though football is historically the sports powerhouse and fall is the season of cross country, soccer, and high school swimming, all of these sports were like a three legged step turtle to me.

As tryouts and seasons begin, I want to wish all athletes—aspiring and seasoned— in all sports the best of luck. We all know who won that race between the rabbit  and the turtle. 

A Landscape with Hope

I’m fired up. I don’t usually write when I feel like this, so we’ll see how it goes. I’ll begin by offering thanks for the backspace and my bicycle.

I attended a test screening of “Add the Words” last Friday at the ISU theater.  The documentary chronicles protesters during the 2014 Idaho Legislature who want the words “sexual orientation and gender identity” added to the Idaho Human Rights Act. I went in to the show skeptical and feeling like I needed to see the perspective portrayed. I agree with the protesters that those words should be added. I admire their grit, but I’m not convinced that their actions weren’t more detrimental than helpful.  I went to the show in hopes of seeing behind the scenes material to convince me the continuing protests were a good idea.

A year and a half ago when I spoke as a member of the LGBT community at a Pocatello City Council, my reasons were twofold. I wanted to share my experiences of negative treatment and fear to offer a personal qualitative piece of data supporting non-discrimination legislation, but I also wanted to talk about how freakin’ great my life has been.  Cue Pharrell Williams’ jazzy, upbeat number one hit, “It might seem crazy what I'm about to say…”  I’ve grown up in south east Idaho and I’m happy!

As stories pour into the media and statehouses about the struggles and discrimination that LGBT people have faced, it’s paramount, for teens and adolescents especially, that accounts of hope and happiness appear as well. The “Add the Words” movie was certainly more focused on struggles and not about hope.  

The movie showed how the Idaho legislature has refused a hearing—just a hearing—and in essence is silencing hundreds of Idaho families whose voices deserve to be heard. These families and voices have been refused for eight years now.

While we call on legislators to give LGBT youth hope in the passing of laws, we’ve got to do our part to contribute to a landscape of hope. At the conclusion of the film, a number of people offered comments.  Someone on stage said that School District 25 doesn’t support gay/straight alliances (GSAs) and we were urged to call the superintendent.

I doubted this was true. From my seat in the theater, I messaged a friend who teaches U.S. Government at Highland High School. Pamela Fleischmann Peck ran the Human Rights club at HHS a couple years ago, but due to lack of student interest, the club became inactive.  She is more than willing to advise and resurrect the group. The infrastructure is there at Highland and only needs student interest to develop.

I also texted Irving Middle School principal Tonya Wilkes. She shrieked (as one possibly could via text) that clubs are absolutely allowed. She added that district administrators have recently gone through anti discrimination professional development and training. Central to this is recognizing and addressing issues like bullying, depression, and isolation encountered by LGBT youth or others in underrepresented economic, religious and ethnic groups.

I wanted a little more backbone than friend-to-friend chats on this, so I did call the School District 25 Office. I asked flat out: Are GSA clubs prohibited?  I got a clear cut, “No. We do not oppose the creation of a gay/straight alliance club.”

I learned that the creation of any school group is student-driven. If students want a club, the school and District support that. Before a group can be created, the school’s administration must find an adult volunteer within the school to be an advisor. Once one is found, the advisor will help the group get organized, define their intended purpose and plan activities to support their purpose. A GSA would be supported and run just like other school clubs.

Simply put, this public statement after the movie was inaccurate.

One of the last speakers after the film called for LGBT people to speak up. I agree that talking is important, but so is listening. In the midst of so much speaking up, we may not hear about changes that are happening, what school districts, teachers and allies are doing, and what lawmakers or other LGBT people are accomplishing on behalf of equal rights. 

There is more to be done. There will always be more to be done, but in not acknowledging or celebrating little victories and progress, I fear that hope can be lost. I hope that Idaho lawmakers will hold a hearing on adding the words next session and fewer protests arise because I’m still not convinced that halting all other legislative progress is a good idea.  My experience in south east Idaho tells me there is happiness and hope to be had. Kids should know that. 

If We Loved like Buddy Did

At this moment I have four columns started for the Tuesday’s “Education” page. They each need tweaks I haven’t pinpointed yet, and I doubt all of them will even see print. While writing in the bagel shop this week, I turned to Facebook for a brief distraction and perhaps inspiration. Ok, ok. It was more out of habit and addiction than purpose.

Not much happens among my social network when the weather is beautiful, but my pal Carol’s post stopped my scrolling instantly. “I said goodbye to Buddy today. I held his head, and he went softly.”

I’m glad I’m comfortable in this town and in our bagel shop because my tears flowed freely. I finished my bite of bagel. Wiped my lips. Then my eyes. Then my nose. I needed more napkins for my nose.

Buddy was Carol’s beloved golden retriever. My own golden retriever is about to turn 13 and her sister, my former step dog, will be 14 in August. Both are losing their hearing and sight and have tumors scattered amidst their silvery golden fur. While mowing the lawn or riding my bike, I have found my mind writing their memorials before I even realize where my thoughts traveled. I love these golden girls, but neither of them is as great a dog as Buddy was.

Carol’s post continued, “Buddy was such a beautiful boy. I know why they call him ‘golden’. Buddy served people all of his life. He was a Counseling Dog for 10 years. He sat with kids who were sad or scared. He looked in the eyes of big strong men as they softly told him they had one like him.”

While playing city league basketball a few years ago, I wobbled out of the Hawthorne gym at half time to lean on the drinking fountain. I noticed a clipping from the ISJ on an office door. It was Carol’s office and it was an article about Buddy’s work as a therapy dog. He was handsome on his own but with his signature bandana, he was downright dashing.

The newspaper article talked about Buddy’s work during the weeks after the 2012 Newton, Connecticut school shooting and how he had come to be treasured therapy dog at Syringa Elementary and then at Hawthorne Middle School. Buddy spent time as a calming and welcoming fixture at the threshold of Carol’s office at the top of Hawthorne’s main stairs.

Carol continued, “Buddy was my companion. He loved me always. He was there for me always. He trusted me always. Buddy loved to camp with the girls. Buddy loved going to school. Buddy loved the dog park. Buddy just simply loved.”

He did. He really, really did. I saw him in action a few times and was enchanted by his panting grin. Our world would be better if we loved like Buddy did. If we just simply loved.

Be Wonder Women

Appeared in the Idaho State Journal on July 22, 2014

Lynda Carter’s 53^rd birthday is this week. Lynda’s 1970’s TV role of Wonder Woman is credited as being one of the first role models of a strong and courageous woman for girls of my generation. She fought bad guys, solved problems, and worked diligently on her own and with other do-gooders.

No caption needed.

Lynda in concert last fall. I like to let people
know OFTEN that I SAW HER IN PERSON!

A friend of mine, Jessica Owens, is holding a day camp for girls ages 8 to 11 today. She wants it to be one that all of their brothers will envy when often it’s the opposite. She is planning a day of experiments and exploration, instilling a joy in learning something new. She’s going for “uninhibited excitement about the process of discovery.”  I’m sorry, was that 8 to 11? So, I can’t come then?

She wants them to end their day knowing, without a doubt, that science, technology, engineering and math (STEM) can be a rewarding career path. Throughout the day she is sharing thoughts from women whose lives have been enriched by a love of STEM and asked if I might share some thoughts. I’d love to!

I always liked math as a kid because I got it. It was easy and enjoyable until I got to geometry.  That required a different way of thinking for me, and I had to work my brain in new ways, but I did it.

I signed up for Advanced Placement (AP) Physics my senior year of high school. The class was hard. Miserable in fact, and seemingly impossible to balance with student council, volleyball and band.  I petitioned to drop it, but my principal, Dr. Carole McWilliam, wouldn’t let me. During a one-on-one she said firmly, “You are a smart young lady who can handle it, and I’m not going to let you think that when it gets hard you can just quit. Forget it. Now go on because I’m sure you’ve got some studying to do.”

I tell this story all the time and have thanked Dr. McWilliam on numerous occasions. Her encouragement-slash-scolding stayed with me.

A couple years later in college, I was a walk-on for the Idaho State volleyball team while majoring in engineering. At the beginning of my sophomore year, one of my professors told me that I should consider a different major if I insisted on “this volleyball foolishness.”  I didn’t argue with him, complain or take him to the Dean, I went to work. I earned a 98% for my final grade and through that experience I learned how right Dr. McWilliam was.

I AM a smart, young (youngish now) lady and I can handle it.

I graduated with my engineering degree when I was 23 years old, was hired by a company two weeks later and have been in the tech sector since.  I like that I solve problems and puzzles for a living, and it doesn’t hurt one bit that the averages salaries for STEM careers are among the highest.

Lynda Carter along with Dr. McWilliam were inspiring Wonder Women and so is my friend Jessica. There are Wonder Women (and Super Men) all around to encourage, nudge, and illustrate that we—YOU—can be Wonder Women, too.  

Herman, a Gift from my Dad

I’m having a yard sale this weekend. Peace be with me. 

I’m discovering I might be a packrat. Not the packiest of rats because I don’t really buy a lot of things (except ninja turtle t-shirts) but I do hold on to clothes and keepsakes.  I’ve felt guilt in wanting to part with gifts that I don’t wholeheartedly love or use any more. I’ve felt pangs of failure in wanting to sell jeans that no longer fit or mementos from my past relationship, and good ole sappy nostalgia has stalled the sorting and piling process.

I have six boxes of stuff from my folks. I go through them once a year. Sometimes, I actually make it through all of them, but most times I stop after 20 seconds and tape up the first box while wiping tears and thinking about what ice cream I’m about to have.  I’m forcing myself to go through all of the boxes this week and there will be no comforting ice cream until I’m done.

I surprised myself when I decided to give away one of the only gifts I still have from my dad.  His name is Herman and he is a 14-pound marbled blue bowling ball. I’ve never considered parting with him, but a few weeks ago I went to a BBQ at my friends Barry and Marjanna Hulet’s house. They have a colorful collection of bowling balls all over their yard.  As I came across Herman in my basement, I immediately envisioned him in the Hulet’s yard among the other orbs.

I got into bowling my seventh grade year during Mrs. Atkinson’s Life Sports class. We took lessons at the old Moonlight Lanes on Yellowstone and my mom let me join a Saturday morning league as long as I rode my bike so she could sleep in and enjoy her leisurely Saturday mornings

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My dad lived in Lava Hot Springs but was making regular trips to Pocatello to see doctors. His emphysema diagnosis was looming. He never paid child support and my mom always had a complaint into the court, but he’d still stop by to give me some ones from the bar that he called my “spending money.” Sometimes in lieu of cash, he’d bring an off the wall gift he procured second or third hand. One time he brought me a mildewy tent. He knew what I tomboy I was and thought I’d like to go camping sometime.

Both of my parents were severely overweight and never camped. Who the heck was going to take me camping? But thanks, Dad.

At age 12 and wanting to enjoy his gift, I disassembled my bed with a monkey wrench, took the frame downstairs, pitched the tent in my room, and put my mattress inside.

Dad got progressively sicker and weaker and on his next visit, I had to go to his car because he couldn’t lift my gift.  In a box in his trunk was a magical blue bowling ball he found at a Garrett Way warehouse sale. Dad didn’t leave me any spending money this time, but I didn’t think twice. He was in tuned to my hobby and even though I could barely lift him, Herman was beautiful!

Now that I had my own ball, Mom was going to have to give up her leisurely Saturday morning to drive me to league. Herman also needed holes drilled and a bag to carry him. Mom couldn’t afford either, so I rolled him into my bedroom tent until her next payday.  She ended up only paying to get the holes drilled and made me use an old piece of luggage to carry him. It worked but it was ugly.

Herman epitomizes how my dad showed his love, how my parents managed their individual relationships with me, and how they fostered my relationship with the other parent separate from their own issues. Dad was so happy to give me Herman, but he paid no attention to how heavy he was, how I’d carry him, how finger holes might get drilled or any of the ramifications the gift would have on my mom.

 

Mom didn’t disparage him, but she did communicate the predicaments his gift and lack of child support put her in. She spoke matter-of-factly of their interpersonal conflicts but simultaneously encouraged me to revel in my dad’s imperfect love and all of his whacky gifts because they were sincere and from his heart.

Herman came from his heart and has a special place in mine. When I asked the Hulets if he could join their spherical herd, they were delighted.  Perfect. I have a sense of peace in passing him on to them and in creating a little more space in my basement.  Herman Hulet has a great ring to it.

Herman and me with his new friends in the background.

The Hulets gave Herman the seat of honor before I left.
Before I left him.
Ice cream, anyone?