Torn Between my Loves

There's such a fine line to 24 hours, and just how much I can reasonably accomplish or enjoy.   Yet, I am torn everyday, even with lists giving me places, errands to run, and tasks to finish.  The list is never fully complete before I start another one.  The lists don't show my true loves, they only take time away from them.

My true loves are spending time with family and friends, playing golf with friends, writing, gardening, exercising and walking the dog.  The irony lies in this warm weather.  By November my golf clubs are usually dusty and my mind hasn't given a thought to playing golf or gardening, but this year nature is giving us a real fall and I'm making every effort to be outside and enjoy every minute of it.  Until December 6, I was still digging in my gardens.  Newly planted surprise lily bulbs will do just that, surprise me next summer.  A transplanted iris garden will shed purple, white, and golden colors for a few weeks this coming spring, and Jack and I will toast a glass of wine to their beauty.

The awesome Greensburg duo of Letty and Jayne playing golf in Kansas December 2.

We've traveled to OU football games and visited with friends and family;  toasted to childhood memories at our (Weaver) family's first reunion this Thanksgiving; and managed to play golf on November 30 and then again on December 2.  I've loved every minute of these memories, but still I'm torn.

My brain and my emotions love it when I just sit and write or read.  I don't handle interruptions well when I'm playing in my head, and so I need cold winter days that keep me inside and nothing else on my calendar.  My brain frequently replays a quote by Georgia O'Keefe, "In order to do one thing right you have to give up 12 other things."  My dad said something similar whenever I wanted to be an Olympic swimmer or tennis player, "Tizzie, learn to do ONE THING well, first, then you can enjoy the others."  Over the years, they were both right.  I learned to be a tenacious golfer; a well versed student; a creative teacher.  Along the way I learned to be a storyteller and puppeteer.    Now, I'm doing those twelve other things, with a tug...Write  Write   Write.  There are stories in my head nearly drowning trying to get out, get down on paper.

This afternoon the North winds blew cooler weather our way.  I turned off the outside faucets, rolled up the hoses, and came inside.  I've played with my blog drafts, filled in photos that were deleted when my blog went haywire, written short notes about Miami, called friends, toasted a glass of wine to a creative muse named Tizzie.  She's back.  She's happy, her twin Letty dislikes the cold north wind, but Tizzie is happy.

Miami Memories: MHS the Substitute

The phone rang early this morning jarring my cozy dream state.  Staying in my warm bed and ignoring the loud ring came to mind, but instead I crawled out of bed, politely answered in a most upbeat tone, and listened as the voice pleaded, "Letty, we need a sub today.  Could you please take this job?"

"No, I'm sorry," I replied, "but my calendar is full."  After hanging up, my guilt gene kicked in for a few moments.

The morning was still dark outside and the house was chilly.  My husband was eating breakfast and the dog was faithfully begging and drooling by his side, waiting on a tasty morsel to drop.   Before I had a chance to settle into the still warm sheets of bed, my brain buzzed with a flashback to my first substitute teaching job at Nichols Elementary in Miami, Oklahoma.

A picture would have read circa December 1967,  showing a bright eyed nineteen year old college student dressing for her first teaching job.  I was home from LSU on semester break and had plunged into the adult world immediately by filling out forms to be a substitute teacher.   I don't remember much about that day other than the fear in my eyes when I meet those fourth graders, and the pounding in my heart when I saw the teacher's lesson plans.   With the schedule seemingly changing every 20 or 40 minutes, I never really caught up with that first day.  Recess was a great relief to me, and the end of the day bell convinced me that I had chosen the right path, teaching high school English or History would be a breeze compared to elementary.

Spring Break 1968 I remained dedicated to making money by substituting at Miami High School, where I knew my way around, having just graduated from that stately red brick building in 1965.  I proudly accepted the job to sub for Mr. Lingo in French class, especially since I had taken two years of French from him and had continued on in college with French classes.  The morning was glorious:  my little sister Jonya, a sophomore, came by the room to see me; I drank a coke and set it on the desk as I had seen Mrs. Enderland and Mrs. Thompson do when they substituted;  other teachers recognized me and asked if I needed  help.  "No thank you, but I'm doing just fine," I replied. I spent time in the library at noon with Mrs. Watson chatting about books we had both been reading. The Confessions of Nat Turner was my favorite read that year.

The calming spirit of Miami High.

Springtime weather warmed the classroom and the janitor helped me open some of the stuck windows, leading to my first encounter with rowdy boys.  Shortly after taking role in the last class of the day, I looked up to see a boy leaping out of the window and two more on his heels.  I rushed to the window to stop them, and then I broke into a short jab of laughter followed by embarrassed anger.  The remaining students and I watched as the boys ran between two houses and on across main street to "E. C's" Drive-Inn.  A deep breath was in order, but then what to do?   Calming myself and my students came first, and when at last they were on task for the moment, I quietly stepped out and walked down the hallway to the principal's office.  Mr. Kelton looked up smiling,  "It's nice to have you in the building today.  How has your day gone?"  Humbly, I explained that I had lost control with the group of boys and described what had happened.  With no sympathy and a sheepish grin on his face he responded rather sarcastically   "Now skipping out of class isn't anything new to you, is it Letty?"  If I could have disappeared in a puff of smoke at that moment I would have, but instead I smiled, dropped my head and said, "I never jumped out the window!"

I don't remember what the course of action might have been that day.  My guess is that Mr. Kelton calmly walked over to E.C's and invited the boys back into the building.  I survived.  I never finished that degree to be a high school teacher, but I did stay in education, and am most grateful to every child who entered my life.  Forty-five years have passed since that first phone call.  Today, and perhaps for years to follow,  rather than substitute I have chosen to write, to exercise, to read, to relax and let someone else take charge.