Open Letter to South Florida Pastors Regarding Our Primary Election

 Dear Pastor,                                         July 29, 2026

Your dynamic series on Moses has stirred a renewal of obedience in my life and others. “Quit arguing with God and just do it.” Hence this letter.  

Thank you for your rousing July 4th service as well. You eloquently laid out the history of leaders who fought and rallied for freedom against tyranny. (The patriotic medley was amazing).

During the Revolution, we know that the clergy were outspoken in defending freedom. Among them were pastors John Witherspoon, who even signed the Declaration of Independence, James Caldwell and Peter Muhlenberg. 

Today, we find the rise of socialism/communism and the oppressive Sharia Law in New York, Minnesota, Texas and Colorado. It’s not difficult to count the number of anti-American politicians in office.

Perhaps it is time for pastors to follow suit with the Revolutionary reverends to use their pulpits to promote patriotism; to not shy away from challenging their congregants to vote, especially in this August 18th primary.

The Christian Coalition is a good guide for voting in alignment with scripture. I’m sure you are aware of others.

 If individuals, especially the members of the Body of Christ, do not elect godly officials, we will certainly lose our dearly held freedoms of religion, peaceable assembly and speech.

I have written to my representatives. I now appeal to my pastor, for it is high  time to use every platform possible to speak for freedom, no matter the consequence.

Perhaps once again, as in ancient Egypt, God is raising up Moseses to lead the country away from bondage. 

Finally awake out of my Netflix stupor,

Respectfully,

Angela Shaw

Why Musicals Matter

 Last October, there was only one reason why nine overloaded, over-committed elementary school teachers joined me in taking on the giant task of producing a 50-member musical comprised of 3rd to 5th graders.

They gave up their afternoons, including tutoring opportunities, for the sole reason of exposing young hearts and minds to the wonders of story and song; the thrill of dance and dialog and the one-of-a kind joy of joining voices in that crowning anthem.

The thought of igniting a spark in one child was motivation enough. Just as it happened in the heart of Elisabeth Marbury, whose parents raised her in the New York theater and who became playwright agent for Oscar Wilde and George Bernard Shaw, or in writer Noel Coward, or composers Rogers and Hammerstein, Sondheim, director Spielberg and of course the great Walt Disney; so might it happen in one of our students.

But if none of these kids ever attain such grand achievements, at the very least, they will have learned to appreciate the art form of the musical. An art form that offers relief, respite and restoration from this troubled and turbulent world.

Take the story of Jake. Jake was a shark in Finding Nemo. Sometimes he danced, most often he didn't. Sometimes he behaved, more often he didn't.  In fact, he was expelled from the show for arguing with our guest acting coach. After discussions and apology letters, he was reinstated, but didn't seem to relish acting in the show.

His academic specialist at school was not getting a word out of him during a recent session, until she said, "I heard you want to try out for G-star, that performing arts middle school." He perked up. "I think you'd do great," she continued. "You'll be 'J-star!'" Her play on words broke his mute state; "G-Star," "J-Star."

Suddenly his thoughts tumbled out and he answered all his lesson questions from there on. 

The power of his musical experience and the genius of his tutor effected significant change in one boy's life.

That is why we did and do this. And why it is worth every moment.

For the Love of Cake

 I'm not a real cake fan. Except for the icing or fluffy filling.

"I've spared myself the extra calories from carbs," I console my sugar-shocked mouth after swallowing the last creamy spoonful of frosting and leaving the starch. Although, carrot cake, Tres Leches and anything soaked in coconut get my vote.

Maybe I am a fan, after all.

Wherever we look, cake comes up. At birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, most every celebration, except funerals.

We stay longer at receptions and parties to have said piece of cake. It's the grand finale. The crowning glory. The event focal point.  And we praise those who can decorate them in buttercream roses, swirls, flower petals, swags and pointlets. Others sit in graceful sophistication, tailored with fondant, ganache or glace.

My mother loved to decorate them, though wanting in many other culinary skills due to being raised with a cook and nursemaid.

On one birthday--my little girl guests fluttering in their petticoat skirts--she served a dessert in the shape of a ladybug by carving layer loaves into ovals and then icing them with dots and eyes and antennae. I must have been eight. 

These are triumphs of cakes.

But cakes also suffer their tragedies. 

Such as in the callous response of the selfish French monarch, oblivious to the starving state of her subjects. "Let them eat _ _ _ _!" certainly gave the sweet a bad name.

Like the time my mother spent hours on a cake for a friend's event. Her beloved bakery creation traveled in the "far-away" (trunk) of our powder-blue station wagon. I also rode in the back, with the food. (These were the times before seatbelt regulations). I made my five-year-old self comfortable on the trip, edging up to something soft and squishy, only to discover I'd situated my bottom on the precious pastry. 

I had sat on the cake. The cake that took so long to bake.

Although my mother never scolded me, the pall of disappointed as I emerged from the back of the car with a half-flattened cake, etched a deep ravine of eternal guilt.

Some cakes fall. Some spill. Some get sat on. Some burn. Some over-rise, as in my favorite childhood book, The Duchess Bakes a Cake. 

And some get immortalized in songs,

Melting in the dark

                                              left out in the rain

                                                                                     the sweet, green icing flowing down

Jimmy Webb's epic four-verse song--with an extended instrumental--triumphed in 1968. 

And here in 2026, the song, MacArthur Park, has enjoyed a re-bake accompanying an American gold-medal ice skater in her Winter Olympic victory.

Ms. Liu chose the heart-stopping interpretation of the late, imitable Donna Summer. 

Only Summer's soaring vocals could reverberate the transcendent joy of Liu's jubilant dance.

How appropriate. 

Another cake with which to celebrate this moment in cult history!

The songwriter

                            the singer

                                                            the skater 

                                                                                            the Olympic victory   

Let's all linger at the party for a second slice of cake.      

     

Saharan Dust Moon

Tonight I saw the sand that traveled three thousand miles across the Atlantic. 

The road weary plume illuminated by the full moon 

It's beam turned from silver to gold

From milky to cafe con Latte.

The busty orb set against a grainy buff sky.

Not the clear, crisp light that our full moons bring,

But an unfocused hazy glow.

The sun had set the same way

It just looks like regular clouds, my husband said.

No, it’s an unusual haze, I countered

A fuzzy blur of rays

Such as our talks have become of late.

This isn’t California, after all, where smoggy skies are the norm.

This a wind blown tropical peninsula where air pollution retreats to the Gulf

Or the Atlantic

Amber skies are enigmatic

Saharan dust plumes,a rare phenomenon 

Whose golden spray, like an ecru pair of sheers just hung

Casts a yellow-diamond hue 

Over us all

                                                           Photo credit Palm Beach Post

A Slow Boil and Grocery Prices

 Frogs and people.

We have much in common. Our lungs, for one. Remember dissecting them in high school? Every time I do, I cringe. Not because I'm afraid of blood or anatomy-in-the-raw. But because I just didn't want to taste any frog innards.

There we were sticking a small straw into the trachea. "Now gently blow air into the straw," the science teacher directed. So, I did. But when I stopped blowing, I neglected to take the air tube out of my pursed lips and a wreaking, formaldehyde-drenched puff of frog breath rushed back into my mouth. I couldn't not have been more grossed out and repulsed. "Ew, I breathed the same air from inside a frog's lung," my lab partners heard me scream.

Then there's the slow boil. I have never tried that experiment, but am told frogs don't jump out of hot water if it is heated in small degrees.

Much like we shoppers in the grocery store. Two years ago the price of a six-box raisin pack was 0.99. Then you notice it's 1.09. A few months go by and they're up to 1.29.  Until they are, as I just bought them up to 1.99. One hundred percent increase!

At first it was because merchants were catching up on lost profits during COVID. Then the rise was due to the price of gas. Now I don't see any rationale, so I asked Aldi worker while I was waiting in line to check out in the one and only place to load your food on the belt, 

"Look I know it's not your fault, but why do groceries keep going up?  Gas is going down, COVID has long been over and all the checkers have disappeared to leave it to customers to self-scan, bag our own groceries and pay. The groceries should be going down because the stores no longer have to employ checkers! They should be paying us!" 

"I don't know," he blithely answered.

"Does any one else ask these questions?" 

"No." 

That's the other thing that's changed. Employees don't know anything about their own store.

"How long is the mulch sale on?" I asked the clerk at Home Depot. "I don't know." 

I wanted to say. "Why don't you know what's going on in your place of employment?" But didn't. After all, now, no one needs math or even the ability to read. Technology does it all. It even thinks for the employees.

Once a Walmart worker cut some fabric for me. It was an easy 1/3 of a yard of a leather-like fabric to line the console of the car. It was 10.99 per yard. He said, 

"Wait, let me get my calculator." I said, "Well it's easy if you just get 10% of $10 which is $1. then multiply by three to get 30%. Then do the same for the extra two .99's and add them together. $3.33."

"Ah," he said, "I was never good at math." 

"Neither was I, " I replied. "But a girl has to know her sales discounts. So I found shortcuts."

The help is in decline, but the prices are on the up as we become more amphibian-like. 

Come on in, the water's fine.

But the temperature's rising.

Oh, Say, Can You Sing?

 

My husband and I took in the Saturday Night Lights jumping event for the second week in a row here in Wellington--the Winter Equestrian Capital of the World.

Each week is a little different. 

Different course. 

                                                 Different purse. 

                                                                                                Different entertainment.  

Well, except for the fire-eaters and flame-twirlers. It's the same troop performing at 'half-time' every week.  Miss acrobat did the splits while holding two fans of flaming torches.  Gentleman stilt walker juggled fiery batons and blew the stuff of dragons out his mouth. 

Impressive.

Naturally, every week the National Anthem is sung as we stand with our hands on our hearts. Last week it was the local middle school choir and this week a 12-year-old whose thin frame belied her gusty belting. 

Not so impressive.

When did this sacred anthem sprout new notes, slurs and appoggiaturas? And I'm not talking about the acceptable improvisation and stylizing that a veteran voice might employ. 

I'm talking about scooping and sliding to the pitch. A clear indication of an untrained voice and violation of correct singing.  Are those sirens I hear? 

In disbelief, I listened as the choir, in perfect unison, scooped up to the high notes and dragged down to the low ones. And then this week, the little soloist slipped and slid the same exact way. 

My God, my vocal teacher would have booted me out of her office faster than you can say do-re-mi for singing so sloppily. 

You must place the pitch squarely in the middle. Imagine it in your head first, then hit the target in the bull's eye. If not, go back to the practice room until you stop swerving around every note like your driving on ice.

It was a clear sign of inferior singing. The mark of a novice; a beginner. And never could I have imagined being allowed to perform a song in such shape. 

I'm sure we could trace the trend to some current pop singer who set this vocal standard in the cellar, put this bar in the basement. And every indiscriminate influencee thinks it's fashionable and like-worthy to follow suit. Of course, the sweet budding students can't be faulted or even the conductors. Some arranger did a simplified version of John Stafford Smith's tune to accommodate developing voices and the music teacher said, yeah, they can achieve this. 

A purist, such as my piano teacher, (who had performed before the Queen and forbade me play 'Fur Elise' until I could handle the technical middle section), would never have assigned the simplified National Anthem to any choir. It would had to have been the original or else wait and work for maturation of skill. Perhaps the singing issue is due to a greater problem of a declining arts culture...

Fortunately, the horse jumping was graceful,

                                                                              skilled, 

                                                                                                and beautiful to watch. 

The years of practice and discipline loaded in every leap, turn and trot. Lithe equines responding to their master's nudge and prod; rich coats glistening as muscles rippled at every calculated and memorized move. 

Maybe next week the music will find its stride the way the horse and riders have.

A Letter to My Son on His 30th Birthday

There you are.

In your Brooklyn Navy Shipyard suite--a white walled, multi-windowed space that beckons creativity. A potter's wheel in one corner, a center work table and counters lining the window, all catching the suffused sunlight of a north facing exposure. It is hot, so the window panes are tilted to their widest angle in hopes of inviting any breath of wind the steamy July day might part with. 

Boone, your Brindle dog, once nosing into every shopping bag and clay bucket, now older, lies lazily on the white painted floor, spongy paws taking in the cool of the cement. Shelves spill over with the latest bisque collection, lamp bases and shades, glazes and carving tools. A fine layer of  ice-grey powder covers every surface. 

Defaulting into mother-mode, I offer to organize the cluttered sink while you add hardware to a lamp sample that must make the mail today, bound for inspection from hoteliers who will soon appoint their boutique rooms with custom lighting from Episode.nyc. "It's ok, Mom," you say. "Everything is where it should be." Adjusting my relational place again, I retreat to the window seat.

The sweetest of girls shares your affection, supports and, yes, while you are well mannered and socially aware, she still refines any rough edges that have followed you into this thirtieth year. 

I and your father stand at a greater distance than when I wrote the 20th birthday letter, though not without ample discomfort from this adult parenting business of increasingly letting go. 

There you are.

Following your own path. College interrupted, but your work has found its way into Architectural Digest and British Vogue and hotels in New Orleans, San Francisco and the Caymen Islands. Dishware, chess sets, pendants and table lamps that are more work of art than functional residing in homes as far away as France.  

You have much to show for your twenties, choosing to act on your passions rather than dutifully finishing a course of classes that would leave you indebted to both loans and lost time. You are almost more New Yorker than Floridian, now, having spent equal years in both states. And your first five years in California are a faint memory, details and adventures of which your older brothers and sister must remind you.

By the way, your stuff is still in our attic--golf clubs, fishing poles and plastic boxes of memorabilia. You ran out so quickly five days after high school graduation, and haven't taken anything since. Living in cramped quarters in NY is a valid excuse. Those childhood report cards, notes and letters, along with the family cellphone plan are soul ties I unhealthily cling to. So, no rush. Leave them there.

And Happy Birthday, Son. Never been prouder, nor had a fuller heart to see you now

Where you are.

Reservations at the Gowanus Inn and Yard

It should have been simple.

Just a quick online search for a one night stay in Brooklyn in the middle of summer. Of course, I wanted to be as economical as possible after a no-holes-barred 5 days on the Cape for a family history trip with hubby, son and daughter-in-law. 

And it was simple.

At first.

The website listing that caught my eye showed a photo of a modern platform bed with tightly tucked sheets and a throw laying crosswise at the foot. A large undressed window, mid-century end table, and a potted Ficus Lyrata completed the decor of this $115 a night room. Other photos showed an updated bathroom in shades of white and a smart-looking lobby.

"What do you know about The Gowanus Inn and Yard?" I asked my son who lives in Bed-Stuy. He had lived in New York for a good five years and knew the Brooklyn boroughs better than this Floridian who only flew in sporadically.

"It's a great area. We go to the Whole Foods there and my favorite brewery is in the area. It's really up and coming. You should book it," he said.

And I was about to until I paused to look up some reviews. Even before I finished typing in the google search bar, autofill finished my sentence choices.

Gowanus Inn and Yard...deaths

What? 

I clicked over to read about a computer hacker who was found hanged in one of the rooms. 

Another news report read about a woman found dead in her bed, not of natural causes.

And still another more grim about a mother who killed her 6-year-old son during her stay at the Gowanus Inn. 

"But how long ago were those incidents?" My son asked me after I called him back quickly. 

"The oldest was in 2013. the latest was 2021," I replied.

"Because," he explained, "Gowanus has a rough history, but it's been cleaned up over the past few years. 

Before then, that creek was a hub of criminal and Mob activity. The stream grew so murky and polluted, it served as the perfect dumping ground for the latest homicide. 

Gowanus Canal, which runs through the town has a long checkered history.

The Dutch settled on what was a conflagration of several creeks where livestock drank and nearby farms were tilled. The brackish water, created by the bay and the freshwater creek fostered the perfect marine environment in which oysters could flourish. The Dutch harvested the little crustaceans and shipped them to England, Brooklyn's first real export, some say.

In the early part of the 20th century, industry began to swell along the rivulet's banks. 700 buildings rose up in one year in nearby Brooklyn. All those new residences needed a place to dump their sewage. That was beginning of the virgin creek's deflowering. 

Chemical plants and tanneries replaced cattle, cement plants marred the grassy banks. Oil refineries and machine shops blighted the pastures, while the fumes of coal gas and Sulfur production exuded odors that swallowed up the meadows' natural fragrances. The lake became so choked with pollutants that locals referred to it as "Lavender Lake" (Gowanuscanal.org).

As New York grew, so did crime. The fast influx of rival ethnicities spilled into the streets--and also the creek. Gowanus' murky, frothy water became the perfect place to discard, not only factory run-off, but unwanted bodily remains. 

In my mind, the current Gowanus rejuvenation was not complete enough for my comfort, regardless of my son's assurance.

I called Vrbo and canceled as quick as you could say, "Get-me-outta-here!"

We found a lovely room with a garden in a classic brownstone on Sterling Street, instead.

July Fading

Time ticks away the final hours of summer 

The sun shifts. The heat persists. Stroke after stoke, thoughts of classes, lessons and meetings erase the lingering softness of the season,

Vistas of Buzzard's Bay with rarely seen family, 

Walks on the crunchy, shelled beaches of Wings Neck, 

Happily braving the ocean winds on a Chappequiot island stroll to the Family Boathouse, 

    the same grey-shingled house where my mother would summer with her cousins as a child in the 30s

I wrap myself in the fraying shawl of summer comforts

    against the impending cold of schedules and obligations

I breathe the thinning air of sun-soaked Cape beach days, 

    dripping coconut popsicles from the ice cream truck 

Central Park picnic on a sultry afternoon. 

    Grown sons

     New friends

    Dogs and toddlers running mindlessly on the green slopes, 

        oblivious to anything but the pure joy of movement

Lamplights flickering at dusk

New York skyline silhouettes at sunset

July fading.    

God and the Metaverse

     In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. 

The earth was without form and void, and darkness was over the face of the deep. 

And the Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters. Genesis 1:1

        Enter man, woman and the snake (whether it took 6 days or 600 million years). Nothing was the same afterward. From that first moment in the Garden, at the snake's cunning coercion, man has been trying to usurp God's role, avert His authority and take his place as ruler of the universe. The tower of Babel was an attempt to rise as high as God. Numerous historic leaders like Caesar and Hitler have doled out life and death at will. Genetic engineering allows parents the ability to pick their baby's eye color. Medical science seeks to alter God-given gender.

    And now, key Palo Alto players are parading themselves as Zeus to create a new universe. 

The Metaverse.

    In this inner-space, people can recreate themselves as avatars or emojis. "Avatars" as a Hindu concept are defined as deities who manifest themselves on earth in bodily form. We all can create our preferred personality, physical traits and talents with emoji applications available on google play or the apple store.

  Apple. 

    The object that facilitated the first rebellious act against God. The bite in that fatal fruit was to "open one's eyes and make them like God," so Satan promised Adam and Eve. 

The metaverse is just an ancient idea contemporized by the most powerful people on the planet. Digital dictators who decree the value of our currency. Corporate demigods who compete with other platforms, companies, and websites to get your eyes looking at them the longest.

    We are complicit worshippers of these 21st-century deities. And they know everything about us--except maybe the number of hairs on our head and the amount of tears we cry. 

    Sadly, the Church has launched into the orbit of this new universe. What Covid-19 restrictions inseminated with video streamed church services, the metaverse has consummated. Now you can join a church that is entirely online, with no physical or real-world location. Your avatar will attend virtually, free from blemishes and wrinkles and always in perfect behavior. (1)

    The Christian Church, which is by definition an interactive body of believers living out their faith in the real world will be reduced to emojis, memes and comments via cyber forums. 

    I believe humans desire more substance that the illusive world of the metaverse. Where art is no longer a skill honed over years to produce fine sculpture, paintings and music. But has been demeaned to a digital code in the form of non-fungible tokens or NFTs.

    Try as culture may, emojis and air hugs cannot replace physical and emotional warmth, a gentle embrace and expressive nuance. Avatars cannot fix our facial flaws. Web profiles cannot redeem who we really are.

    It will take a Herculean effort to escape this cultural cosmic storm. Only the strong will get up and rejoin the human race,

come back to earth and live face-to-face.

    (1) 'Breakpoint' from The Colson Center, WRMB, 2-18-22

Mrs Shaw’s Fantastic Fourth Graders and the PG-Rated Day

 It all began when we viewed a science video on angiosperms and gymnosperms. Pollination was a bit risky as we took notes on the male and female parts of a flower. But the class was rather mature I thought, especially when asexual organisms like earthworms  were introduced.

They took it like adults.

But the animated  teenagers in the video discussing gymnosperms started to push the limits of 9-year-old composure. “Gym,” the perky cartoon figure explained, “means naked. So you see, a gymnosperm, such as a pine cone, is like an unclothed seed, it has no fruit or petals on. It is a naked seed.”

I tried to play it down—although I’m certain they’ll remember that fun fact—and divert the focus to spores and their vascular type of reproduction.

Along came Language Arts, where groups of five read around the teacher’s half-circle table. The nonfiction book at hand was about dams. The Aswan in Egypt, the Hoover in Colorado. It was all quite innocent until one sweet girl who wants to be pastor when she grows up could not quite get the words out. She was reading how dams are built with concrete walls. With extra emphasis, to spit the words out she had previously tripped over, she blurted, “...the dam wall!...” 

Then I, the teacher, became the least mature of them all and exploded into uncontrollable laughter which propelled the whole table and then the entire class into a roaring cacophony. I rocked and spun on my swivel chair for a good minute until we finally calmed down to let the next child read in turn. 

Every time the word ‘dam’ was read, snickers and giggles percolated up again. The last person continued to read about their construction and when she approached and read the word, buttress, a fresh tidal wave of laughter crested. I slapped my book closed, squelching a chuckle, collected the others and said, “That’s it! We’re done! I give up!” 

Aspiring pastor girl apologized profusely.”I didn’t  mean to say it that way, Mrs Shaw. I really didn’t!” 

“Of course you didn’t, Sabrina. That’s what made it so funny. You would never curse anything, much less a wall!”

It was a very PG-rated, hilarious day! The events of which most likely reached the dinner table and ears of many a parent!

The Least of These - Part 2

 Recently, I felt our nightly addiction to Netflex was a complete waste of time. Better that we did something significant. I suggested to Tim that we find and pray about some kind of missions trip to Cuba or Haiti or even nearby Belle Glade that we could join. He agreed. 

When we were first married, in the mid-70s, our bible study group took monthly visits to an orphanage in La Gloria, Mexico. It was a great adventure full of scruffy orphans, dubious bathrooms and cockroach-filled cinderblock whose residents visited us as we slept on the concrete floors. We helped with laundry on 50s vintage washer/wringers, played with the kids, built structures, donated food and clothing and swept screen-less stucco dormitories. 

I was hankering for a new adventure of loving on the least of these.

Be careful what you hanker for. A month ago, our prayers were oddly answered when Tim received a call from his mother-in-law's landlord. They said that her condo was in need of mold-remediation and roof repairs and that all residences had to be immediately evacuated. 

So, on Cinco De Mayo, my 92-year-old Mexican mother-in-law came to stay. And it doesn't look like it will be temporary. She took over the office/guestroom.

The first morning of her stay, the internet was strangely off. We called Xfinity and netgear to see what the problem was. Our Chinese exchange student was beside himself because he had to use a hot-spot to engage in his ever-so-urgent videos games. After a morning of trouble shooting, we learned that mom-in-law had unplugged the wifi and cable devices. (A worry of hers is that leaving lamps and appliances pugged in is a fire hazard). Tim, controlling his temper as best he could, told her not to touch the wires. "I know not to touch them," she replied indignantly. " I used to work in electronics on the space shuttle for crying out loud!" He bundled and fastened the wires so she could not detach them. 

Late that night, I get a text from the Chinese student that the internet is down again. I go into her room and sure enough, she's unplugged everything digital. I reattached them without telling Tim and all is well. This happens three nights straight. Finally when Tim reprimands her again, she blames me for unplugging them! "That woman did it." 

I am so happy she is here so we can feed her regularly. Even though Tim was delivering her meals at her retirement community condo, she would not eat the leftovers in between deliveries. 

She weeds the front and backyards, hand picking all the droppings from our messy Poinciana tree. The property has never been more beautiful. She cuts things she shouldn't, so we hide the trimmers. She feeds the dog our precious coffee creamer, so we are getting a small refrigerator to stash it in. She sneaks the dog her meals, so we quarantine the dog at breakfast , lunch and dinner, so she will eat.  The dog is getting a fur problem because of his new diet of hot dogs, sausage and pudding. Fortunately, we have geriatric drinks we can sit and watch her gulp down once a day. She feeds the dog people food, including orange juice in a small dish that often gets spilled on the carpet. Saturday was spent scouring the carpets with our carpet cleaner, followed by a rug topper in her bedroom.

Her laundry is interesting. We are finding ways to trim and wash her hair although she resists vehemently.

The least of these and our prayed-for, hankered-for missions trip all in one precious, beloved soul.

Mrs Shaw's Fantastic Fourth Graders

    Demetrius was short as fourth graders go. Just shy of four feet. But he stood ten-feet tall in personality, wit and intelligence. His cocoa-brown hair skirted his neck and long wispy bangs often draped his Eeyore-shaped eyes. When he smiled the brown eyes were more like Christopher Robin’s, sparkling with unpredictability. His words were soft, his vocabulary jarringly erudite, as if a seasoned professor was trapped in his 9-year-old body.

    He offered the adjective, "ungrateful" (the one I was looking for) to describe Magpie in the book FOX. Magpie had a burnt wing and Dog was carrying him through the forest. Magpie complained a lot. "Ungrateful" was the perfect description for Magpie's character.

    Demetrius was very good at parts of speech. During reading rotation groups, I had the class make a chart listing as many nouns, verbs, and adjectives they could think of or see around the room. If they needed a challenge, I said they could add a column of adverbs. “What are verbs, they asked? One bright student chirped ‘action words.' "Yes," I said, and adverbs describe the action word and often end with ly.

    My little Steinbeck brought me his parts of speech chart and proudly displayed his word, 'supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,' with a mischievous glimmer. I laughed. He was quite amused with himself. I complimented that he had indeed spelled it right and was surprised that this boy--a  grand-child of 1960s Mary Poppins movie--was familiar with the word.

Photo Credit - Education4equity.com

    My class had swollen from 19 – 22 students. I was happy I had more girls than boys and all were bright and gifted. When another class of 29 walked by ours in the hall, the envious teacher asked my class size. Little did I know that was a mistake. She marched in to the principle’s office and decried her large class. The law states that 22 is the max  for upper elementary grades. I was shocked yesterday that the principle moved 4 of her students plus another new one. My perfect-sized class became a whopping 27. I did not have enough chairs and small group reading rotations became an impossibility. I felt mistreated. Was it my age? Even after two emails and a comment to the principle, all I got was a surprise visit and, with the flair of a decorator, she showed me where I could squeeze in five more desks and chairs. "I haven’t had a moment," I said and mentioned that I had 27 students. “We will hire another teacher, “ she replied. I didn’t believe her, but commented on what a nice set of students I had anyway. I remembered a parent said their child was leaving at the end of the month, so I’d have 26 then.

But Demetrius’s Mary Poppins word made me forget the challenge of a large class and beamed a bright sunny spot on the whole situation.

“Number 1 – 25 on your paper,” I said after lunch. “We are going to take a flash spelling inventory.” I confided that the inventory was really a spelling test, but spelling tests have long since gone out of teaching fashion. The words were pretty simple at first. This was a diagnostic test to see what the kids already knew, this being the first week of school and all. After about 15 words, I looked up to see little Demetrius standing in front of me. He whispered, “Give them 'supercalifragilistic…..'” I half nodded and continued with the "inventory." At number 25, he raised his hand and said, “Don't forget the bonus word." So I gave them the word. As I spoke, little Demetrius chuckled, shoulders bouncing, eyes squinting, with the cutest giggle and half-snicker on his face. He was truly amused with himself.

 And so was I.

Oh yes. Did I tell you the sad news? Did I mention that it's Demetrius who will be leaving at the end of August...?

The Least of These - Part 1

 Yesterday, my husband recounted a high-school story to our church family. 

As a teenager and new believer, Tim was asked to lead a Bible study at his Southern California high school. While many friends promise to come, only one girl showed up, and she was his ride to the before-school gathering. She also had a crush on him. 

Week after week, it was the same story. One person to listen to a prepared expository lesson. 

The end of the semester drew near and a discouraged Tim questioned God, "It's just one, Lord. Why should I go to all this trouble and teach another semester for just one?" 

You know the response. "As you did it to the least of these, so you have done it to Me."

So of course, Tim acquiesced. 

At the start of the term, other friends asked Tim is he was still going to hold his morning Bible study. He said, yes, but was doubtful anyone would show.

Well, the first study came and there were more in attendance than just the infatuated girl who also was his ride. 

Week after week, the numbers grew. The Santa Ana Valley High principal called Tim in and offered him support of any kind for the meetings. Perhaps the principal knew that--in his rough, racially-strained low-income suburban district--the effects of students meeting to learn scripture would be nothing but positive.

Soon, the library where they met burst beyond capacity and the cafeteria became their new chapel. God was faithful even when Tim doubted. 

It's not the masses that count, but the one. Each individual soul.

Although Tim did not share this yesterday, I know that at one point, after he graduated, he was teaching studies in more that ten different high-schools. And later he took his speaking talents on a Jesus band circuit up the California coast to colleges like University of California at Santa Barbara and beaches and parks like Venice/Muscle Beach. 

 

Quarantined in Paradise

This could be really nice.

If most of us didn't have to think about the bills coming due in two weeks,

We could have been ordered to self-quarantine in the bleak of winter

or suffocating summer

or during hurricane season.

But instead it's glorious spring. I mean, sun-is-perfect, temperature-mild, and breezes-caressing, gorgeous spring!

Don't get me wrong, I am working. I blog on my iPad at the breakfast table, then do an editing session on the laptop on the patio, give a remote piano lesson, and hand stitch medical masks on the lounge chair with this view

quarantined in Paradise.

I hear the weather’s not bad up in New York either. Days are warming and the lucky few with rooftop patios enjoy taking their shirt off while conducting important business calls.

Do I wish I had a job in the "essentials” sector? Yes, I think so. The dubious financial future would fly away. It's taken a long time to settle into this idea of not running out the door every morning, and stay home,  disciplining myself to be productive.

But, as a nurse or postal worker or Total Wine clerk, I'd be in constant fear that the next person I service could be sharing his life-threatening disease.

There's no comfortable place to be.

So, we work at home with rambunctious children underfoot, make them endless meals, educate and contain them.

We discover new annoying idiosyncrasies in our spouses and roommates with fresh arguments to wage.

We fumble through the limitations of FaceTime, Skype, Zoom and Google hangouts for whatever work or social activity we attempt. The online unemployment applications are crashing like bumper cars at a carnival as millions claim distributions.

And just as cases climb in NYC, the cyberspace will continue to get more crowded.

Who is holding up the World-Wide Web? Atlas? Because whoever he is, I hope he’s been pumping planets and running laps around Orion to prepare for this satellite overload.

Speaking of solar systems, if nothing else, at least the seasons seem intact.

For those of us who are not connected to a ventilator, waiting in line for Covid-19 testing or riding out a terrifying diagnosis, the sun still rises, the crescent moon still glows, our gardens grow tomatoes, the Florida Jays still twitter and we,

we will somehow find our way back to a normal spring

quarantined in this charlatan paradise.

Photo credit - thesportysommelier.com

The Last Margarita

     Friday, my job ended due to Coronavirus school closures and I just wanted to do something normal. So at dusk, hubby and I took our Starbucks gift card, mancala game board and marbles and went to get coffee. We thought sitting outside in the open air would be relatively safe.

     The young girl at the counter cheerily took our vanilla and green tea latte orders. Reflecting on my own job cut, I asked her if her work hours were affected by the epidemic's restrictions. She said not yet, but there was chatter about closing indoor seating and offering drive-through ordering only. Was she worried about pay loss? She said that Starbucks would give them catastrophic compensation. I thought, Wouldn't that be nice if the school district did that for their hourly employees?

    The sunset did not disappoint, nor did the board game and conversation in the balmy spring air.

It was the last coffee.

    Monday night. March 16th,  most Starbucks stores closed their indoor seating. We discovered that while in Orlando for our son's engagement dinner. Arriving hours early for the party, we went to two different Starbucks in search of an afternoon pick-me-up. The first store showed chairs stacked on tables through the windows. The second was open for grab-and-go only, the blue- haired millennial baristas not so cheery to see virus-susceptible baby boomers. After the 3 hour trip I needed to use the restroom. "Sorry, for employees only, but try the Target down the street," they said. Feeling the heavy pall in the room, hubby didn't even order.

     Barnes and Noble was open. There was this respectful camaraderie between the few there. Each knew the other needed to retreat to books during stressful times. Somewhere in the leafing through pages, and sampling the buffet of words there lay comfort and refuge during crisis. Silent book lovers sauntered slowly down aisles, reverent and reflective in this sanctuary of thought.

     Nestling down into overstuffed chairs, I sipped coffee and read The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning (döstädning), and Tim studied the Hebrew word for "wait" as in "wait on the Lord."  The diffused spring sunlight bathed us through the window. Naps quickly followed. A masked Asian girl sat nearby. At 6:45, the store announced its closing and we headed out to the restaurant.

The last Barnes and Noble hangout? 

     Fearing restaurants would heed President Trump's urging to close Monday at 5 pm, we made sure ahead of time that Don Julio's would stay open for the surprise engagement party. In twos and threes, friends of our son and future daughter-in-law filtered in. Balloons, menus and gifts adorned the three long tables. Our well-intentioned elbow and toe taps, air hugs and knuckle punches were quickly abandoned and replaced with bear hugs and handshakes. Hand sanitizer sat like another condiment alongside salsa bottles and salt and pepper shakers. I ordered the best frosty margarita - green for St Patrick's Day--and it worked its magic. When the newly engaged couple entered the restaurant, shouts and applause erupted, reverberating joy in every heart.

It was the last margarita. 

And perhaps the final fajita.  Restaurant workers joked they stayed open for us. It will be 8-10 weeks until the virus crests and subsides if it follows China and South Korea's pattern.

Until them we hunker, hole up, self-quarantine, miss work and social events.

I couldn't have imagined a more meaningful last supper to commence isolation.

Confessions of an Old-School Kindergarten Teacher - Number 4

Every teacher knows it to be true. But few discuss it at length.

They experience it every day:

Kindergartners are generous.

Photo Credit - www.sparklesontheweb.com

They give you more than you could ever ask for. While some say that youngsters have trouble sharing, not this bunch! They share all that they have. Even a brief kid encounter can forecast a fever or cold.

Yes,

their sneezes adhere to your sweater. A hug leaves a soggy snail trail. Their fingers are forever in their noses and mouths, then on to your pencils and keypads.

They are the gift that keeps on giving.

At Christmastime they gave her lice

 In January scabies

God knows if she had stayed til March

They would have passed on rabies. 

Several bottles of Rid later, she still found an awful black pest dangling from a blonde hair just last week. Three months and still battling the bugs.

Then there was scabies. Just the sound of the name is hair-raising. I thought scabies was something only pirates got while months at sea, or that was found with India's untouchables, or in Auschwitz prison camps.

I was wrong. In an upscale neighborhood, an unnamed teacher contracted such a bad case that the Urgent Care wouldn't approach her to examine her. The doctor excused herself to don blue latex gloves and watched across the room while the patient lifted her shirt to reveal a mass of red dots, rashes and scabs. After a prescription of a insecticidal body cream, the teacher was tortured with a month of endless itching during the aftermath.

Besides the cream, Prednisone was prescribed as an anti-inflammatory for skin issues. Prednisone has a nifty little side effect that lowers the immune system. "Do not take if around infectious environments."  This was kindergarten, folks. A hotbed of germs! An infection factory! So after two days, said teacher came down with a scratchy throat which quickly turned into to a nasty lung condition, fever and cough. She called back Urgent Care to send a Z-Pack script, quick! All during the early days of this new flu epidemic called Coronavirus!

Confession No. 4:

Teaching is hazardous to your health, and I'm not sure if I'm up for it.

Besides, menacing physical ailments, teachers must deal with extreme behavior cases. If she calls the office for behavior support too much, it will reflect on her classroom management skills. So she has to figure out how to tame the wild ones, keep the class safe and still make sure all her students achieve their basic standards, even the ill-motivated ones.  Yes, even the ones that throw chairs and hit the teacher. It's a long process of referral forms, administration observations and paperwork before the child will be moved to a behavior module. Not surprisingly, the wake of stress and missed learning takes its toll on both the teacher and the good kids along the way...

Photo Credit - www.proudtobeprimary.com

I would be remiss not to mention other half of juvenile generosity. Like the bag of coffee they bring on your birthday, the cute compliments, the little love notes left on your desk, the apple, the rose, the morning (dry) hug. Sometimes they present their ice cream money. "No, honey, keep that in your backpack till lunch."

They are funny and innocent and creative. They are curious and inventive and clever. These are the ultimate gifts that educators keep for life.

Confessions of an Old-School Kindergarten Teacher - Number 3

At first I was revolted. As an assistant, I'd watch a teacher dole out Skittles or Gummy Bears or Starburst to reward a small student for finishing an assignment. The delirious child would munch away on a sugar-high while the teacher slipped herself a sweet snack or two--all at 9:30 in the morning! In covert disgust, I'd wonder how an adult educator could sleep at night knowing she'd indulged in kid candy so early in the morning. Any self-respecting grown-up would choose chocolate covered espresso beans, Milano cookies or pita chips--and would do so with her afternoon coffee or La Croix.

Then I took my own kindergarten class. It was hard to instill the desire to finish their phonics page or focus on their computer program or take a simple test. They wrote sloppy and didn't care. They tore books, stuck pencils in perfectly good Pink Pearl erasers, peeled the paper off their crayons and snapped them in half, cut everything including hair with their blunt scissors. They scribbled daily on their desks, under their desks and on the wall by the 'safe spot' where they were often sentenced for misbehaving. They stole from the Friday Treasure Box when I wasn't looking.

It was a disaster. Where was Arnold Schwarzenegger (aka Kindergarten Cop) when I needed him? They ate breakfast over the floor, poured syrup on the table, forgot to wash their hands and didn't flush. (Was I their mother?)

All they cared about was recess, snack time and who was or wasn't their friend for the day. Or whose shoes sparkled most or flashed the brightest LED patterns.

My superiors said it was my job to figure out what would motivate my kids. I had to get them to achieve, come hurricanes or storm surge. My own evaluation and job security depended on it. "Bribe them," they said.

So I stocked up on Goldfish, Cheez-its, Blow Pops and every form of sticky substance that 7-11 sells.  I dangled the coveted treats in front of those wide-eyed 6-year-olds at math time, social studies, reading and rug-time.

For some of them the glucose enticements worked. For others it was sidewalk chalk at recess, a visited from Officer Timmy or Go-Noodle videos.

Teaching was a bit more successful. What I didn't expect was my diffused disdain toward the candy trove. On tired afternoons, I began to eye the bags of Starburst affectionately.

Then one day it happened. The Gummy Bears were talking to me. LOUD! I reached in, took a handful and popped them into my mouth.

How I hate to admit it, but

Confession #3:

I've come to like Gummy Bears  

Photo credit - Amazon.com

Confessions of an Old-School Kindergarten Teacher - Number 1 and 2

The last day before winter break, the school IT guy rolled in a spanking new smart-board.

They just don't understand. My whiteboard is cracking and mottled and almost useless. If anything, I need a new white board to teach math and phonics with my trusty dry-erase pens (which do just that-dry up in a week). Why was my white board the most decrepit in the whole school?

A veteran kindergarten teacher told me that she had my room when she first started. The front wall flaunted a meadow-green chalkboard. Since the school was about 30 years old, whiteboards had not become the teaching fashion.  But that year, she said the District updated the chalk boards and transformed them into whiteboards by applying a white plastic veneer.

After over a decade of use, the cracking veneer looked like the shell of an adventurous hard-boiled egg. Picture Humpty Dumpty after he fell. I checked the upper corners of the board and found that I could actually peel the darned stuff off. Being a picker by nature my semi-psychotic urge to remove the sheet of plastic was severely tested. I SO wanted to reveal the leprechaun green and get out my little cylindrical instruments to have at it!!

Notice the 7-year old writing in cursive - a foreign language to most 4th graders!
Photo credit - Pinterest

But I resisted, knowing it probably would not peel off uniformly and look worse than it already does. Picture Humpty Dumpty meets The Hulk.

Turns out...

I don't need to worry about removing the disintegrating gook any longer because they brought me a smart board. Something that will only distract and mesmerize the children. They will pay more attention to how my pen magically draws digital colors rather than the equations I am writing. The truth is,

Confession #1:

I want my chalk board back.

If it was good (and smart) enough for NASA, it's good enough for me!
Photo Credit- Rarehistoricalphotos.com

Then there's the joy of teasing the class with that grating screech made by holding the mineral utensil at just the right angle with the precise amount of pressure. You know you miss that, too.

 I want the classic board along with McGuffey's Readers that explain the diacritical marks so children can easily blend words, which, by the way,

Confession #2:

I consult McGuffey Readers on the down low every night to see how I can sneak in diacritical marks and the "Ann has a cat" lessons.

Enough of sight words and letting kids spell anyway they want!

I learned to read using the McGuffey Readers. (Along with "Dick and Jane"). My father bought the books at Knott's Berry Farm in the Motte's Miniatures store in the mid-60s and I still have the whole set, from Primer to Book 6.  It's a shame that book 6 is really our current college level. We have been dumbed down so.   I try to smart-up my kids using the books secretly--not 'smart' as in iphones, and security systems, but as in brain power.

Plans, Pots and Life-Pursuits

You can find them at Target (Thank you, Magnolia), Joann's, and Macy's. Pots are in. And in a big way. Rustic, country-fied, modern and suspended in 70s retro macrame pot hangers.

But where can you find something truly unique and customized? Is there a skilled ceramist anywhere around Wellington? Probably just a few in the alcoves of Loxahatchee turning their potter's wheels. That's not to say that a skilled potter couldn't find a start here in Wellington though.

Especially for one young man whose mother demanded that he do something more productive with his time besides staring at his computer screen.

Sometimes your own advice can come back to haunt you.

I told my teenage son (and the other three sons for that matter) that he needed to create something 3-dimensional in real time that we could see with our eyes and hold in our palms.

At the time, the choices in high school were to take wood shop, machine shop, some kind of visual art, or cooking. But he wasn't interested in those hobbies.

So he signed up for a pottery elective. And took to it like it was the latest version of Nintendo or X-Box or today's Fortnite.

At first, the only tangible thing my son brought home was a lot of red and grey dust on his pants.  But soon his classroom creations began to line up on every dresser. Then they were scattered all over the house on end tables and shelves like confetti. Set high on top of the kitchen cupboards. They were lumpy and misshapen, bearing oddly colored glazes. Pitchers had disproportionate handles. Dishes had uneven edges. But with each passing month, the pieces grew more attractive and artistic. More refined.

Graduation came and went and my son headed to NYC to major in business, not knowing what field to pursue. But with each semester, he enrolled in fewer classes. Until, much to my dismay, he discontinued school entirely.  And this is where my words of advice came back to haunt me.

That high school elective had sparked a career, albeit a tricky one to navigate. A season in upstate New York with a kiln and small shed resulted in a portfolio of pots and a possibility of apprenticeship. Eventually he finally found his way to a pottery studio membership in Queens. That is where his collection of functional pottery, like lamps, chess sets and vases blossomed so that he attracted a major boutique hotel. After his first big order he needed to find his own work space and collaborated with a well-followed sculptor to open their own studio in the old Brooklyn navy shipyard.

His company Episode has produced lamps and ice buckets for prestigious hotels in the Caymens and New Orleans. Not bad for a self-taught artist. Each family member this Christmas received a beautiful brown Petrie lamp with the most beautiful New York stamped hardware seen on any fixture. These are nothing like the China-made versions found in Marshall's or Home Goods.

The humble high school elective has come back to compensate and reward not only my son, but his family and more and more of the art-appreciative public. I've let go of the idea of college and stopped nagging my 26-year old son. It's about time I followed in his father's parental philosophy and, "Let the boy do what he loves and wants to do, for goodness sake!"

Good advice, indeed!