Thoughts from a Coffee Shop

Ahhhh, here I sit perched on a stool in the huge picture window at one of my favourite local coffee shops. I don’t actually drink coffee, I prefer tea. I want to like coffee.  I love how it smells and I love the idea of waking up to coffee brewing in the morning. But for now, coffee, like wine, eludes me and I sip on English Breakfast and Diet Coke instead (which, it should be noted, I have started drinking much less of).

Anyway, as I was saying, I’m perched on a stool, looking out over a bustling street.  Whenever I walk by coffee shops, I always want to be the person in the window on their computer looking all relaxed but important at the same time.  I wonder if that’s how I look. The guy beside me actually is important. He is on his computer and working with spreadsheets – potentially boring, but impressive. 

I’ve come here to write and to feel creative.  I’m here alone and there’s no phone to answer (well, my cell phone is right beside me but since I have yet to get a smart phone, I am barely connected by today’s standards).  There is no dinner to make and no kids to answer to.  Let the creative process begin. I wonder if observing myself in a coffee shop is considered creative.

I definitely need to do this more often and for longer. Currently, I have only a forty-five minute escape from my real life. You know the one that involves three children and two dogs that never seem to stop barking. I’m practically on vacation in here.  I’m oozing relaxedness. 

There are two actors on the other side of me and I might as well be part of their conversation we’re in such close proximity.  I so wish I could sing and act and dance but I am the exact opposite of a triple threat.  I’m like the anti-triple threat so I’ll eavesdrop a little longer and live vicariously through them.  Actually, it doesn’t sound that great…far too unpredictable for me. Hmm, I hope none of the people I’m spying on happen to spy back and to find themselves part of my creative process. 

I’m not sure what I came here to accomplish today. I think I was aiming for some sort of genius piece of writing that will inspire all who read it.  I think I may have missed the mark a little but it felt good nonetheless and if I looked relaxed and powerful while I did it, all the better.

Kids These Days

People often look at me with disbelief when I tell them that I love teaching seventh and eighth grade.  I especially love teaching at a school that goes from grade seven to twelve. Many people associate kids these days with raging hormones, an obsession with video games and you tube and texting, being out of touch with what’s going on in the world and a general lack of respect. But this is just a small part of who kids are. The bigger parts, the parts I know, are their huge hearts and their ability to make a difference.

To date, and less than half way into the school year, the students at my school have raised well over four thousand dollars. They have sent this money to help in the horn of Africa and to support the Terry Fox Foundation.  They have collected over one thousand pieces of sports equipment and clothing and sent them to schools in Nigeria.  They have sold bracelets to sponsor a child in need and they have been out collecting food for our local food banks.  And they will not stop here.

I am most proud to be a teacher when I am sitting in our gymnasium during one of our amazing assemblies.  They are largely student run and they have often moved me to tears.  At the Terry Fox assembly, students got on stage and sang and played instruments and their audience listened. They showed videos of Terry and his marathon of hope and their audience was inspired. They asked for a moment of silence to remember and acknowledge those who have been devastated by cancer and more than 1000 students were silent. It was a beautiful and sad and proud moment.

Kids these days make me feel like I want a do-over.  I want to do-over middle school and high school so I can be more like the kids I see every day. I want to lead and inspire my peers. I want to sing and perform at assemblies (I would first have to go further back and be born with these talents). I want to raise money and help those who need it.  I want to be cool…ok, I’m getting off topic.  Really, these kids make me want to be a better person.

Kids these days probably do play too many video games and text too much. You’ve probably heard them using inappropriate language and appearing like they just don’t care. But, they do care. They care more than most of us and they prove it every day in school when their words become actions and their actions help make someone’s life just a little easier.

Kids these days aren’t perfect, but who is? Instead of judging, be a believer. Believe that these kids know what is right and that they are connected to their world. Believe that simply by being around them they just might inspire you.  Believe that kids are getting better, not worse and know that one day it could be your life that they’re making just a little easier.

Sex and Santa Claus

I’ll never forget the moment I found out there was no Santa Claus.  I was in my parent’s bedroom rummaging through my mom’s dresser drawer.  It was a drawer filled with interesting things and I have a vague recollection of sifting through it like a treasure chest on more than one occasion.  On this day though, I stumbled upon something that I wished I could erase from my memory. I had found my baby teeth. My baby teeth that the ‘supposed’ tooth fairy had collected from under my pillow and taken to Tooth Fairy land.

My sophisticated nine year old brain went into overdrive. I was processing it all too fast. If there was no Tooth Fairy then - I came to the only logical yet sad conclusion - there was no Santa.  I was devastated. The magic of my childhood was officially over.  Why did I have to be in that stupid drawer? Why weren’t my teeth better hidden? But really, I was nine and it was only a matter of time before these truths revealed themselves in one way or another.  My son is eight and I hope to hold on to as least one, if not two more Christmases where he still believes.  I want to protect his innocence and allow him to hold on to the magic just a little while longer. 

Over dinner with friends the other night, the topic of what we tell our children and when, came up. One friend was telling the group how, on a lengthy trip to their cottage when she was twelve, her father started asking her questions about what she knew about sex the minute they pulled out of the driveway. She said it made for an extremely long and awkward trip.  In the next breath, she told us that she and her husband have already had the ‘sex talk’ with two of their girls, who were five and seven at the time.

I wasn’t exactly sure what having the sex talk meant to her.  Well, it meant answering the girl’s questions about how she became pregnant which involved, “Daddy putting his penis into Mommy’s vagina.”  What??? You told them that??? I was actually speechless and I teach over a hundred hormonally charged girls, sexual education every year. I needed to digest this. We had only ever told our kids that a baby came when two people really loved each other.  Were her kids ready for that kind of information?  Were mine ready for more?  Her children are armed with information that I’m not sure I’m comfortable with mine knowing…yet. Just like the kid at school who already knows there is no Santa –how long will it be until they spill the beans to everyone?

My parents never talked to me about sex, nor would I have wanted them to. But, maybe that’s because we didn’t have ‘open’ conversations about things like that and maybe that’s the kind of atmosphere I’m now subconsciously creating for my own kids. I don’t know. It’s up to each of us to decide when our kids are ready for certain pieces of information. Or, maybe, it’s really about when we’re ready to deal with telling them those certain pieces of information.

Nothing terrified me more as a kid than the thought of my parents having sex (except maybe them getting a divorce).  I don’t want to terrorize my children but I also don’t want them being the only kids in school who think babies are made magically by love. Actually, I think I’m fine with the kid who knows about Santa spilling the beans to my kids because it saves me from having to do it. And, while they’re at it, they might as well tell them where babies really come from.

My Grandma's Kitchen

This month, my Grandmother will be celebrating her 91^st birthday.  At 91, she is a picture of health and she really doesn’t look a day over 80.  There are many things my Grandma would say have contributed to her longevity.  She doesn’t drink alcohol or anything with caffeine, she spent most of her life living on a farm and she has a strong faith in God. Although I am a direct descendent of hers, I’m batting zero for three on these three significant markers of a long and healthy life.

I spent a lot of time at my Grandparent’s farm growing up, in particular, in my Grandma’s kitchen.  I watched her spend most of her time there, the hub of a very busy working farm.  Together (well, I was of some small assistance), we would prepare lunch for the men who were working in the barns, sheds and fields. These men were my uncles, my Grandpa and my father.  It was as if I were getting a glimpse of the life they lived as a young family working their family farm.

The table would be prepared, in my recollection anyway, in the same way each time.  Plates of pickles, vegetables, sliced meats and cheeses, homemade bread and a hot bowl of homemade soup with crackers would be set out, a banquet for the hungry men.  Grandma would then send me out to find them all in the barns, sheds and fields and call them in for lunch. The smell of fresh straw and farmer’s sweat filled the kitchen air. We would all take our seats around the table, wait for grace and then eat, what seemed to be, the most delicious food ever made.

I have always seen my Grandma’s strength. I have always known how hard she worked for her family and how she did it without complaint or need of praise. For a long time I assumed that the work she was doing in running that kitchen and home was something she had to do, not something she would have chosen to do. But now, I understand that this was how my Grandma loved and took care of her family. Those meals fed her families appetites and their souls.

The generational differences between my Grandma and I are great. And there is not much in my life that would resemble the life that she lived.  But those days in her kitchen, watching her and helping her, became a part of me. It all just stayed with me and when I’m in my own kitchen cooking and baking for my family and friends, I know that she is always with me.

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Here is the recipe for my most favourite cake she has ever made.  You’re welcome!

Grandma Bowman’s Banana Cake with Penuche Icing

½ cup soft shortening

1 ½ cups sugar
2 eggs
2 ¼ cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
¾ teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
¼ cup buttermilk (any milk will do)
1 cup mashed ripe bananas (2-3 bananas)

I use my mixer for this cake. Cream together until fluffy, the shortening and sugar; beat in the eggs. In a separate bowl, mix together the dry ingredients and stir them in alternately with the milk and bananas. Pour into a greased and floured 9 x 13 inch cake pan.  Bake at 350 degrees for 40-45 minutes.

Penuche Icing

1 cup brown sugar

¼ cup unsalted butter
¼ cup milk
¼ teaspoon salt
1 cup icing sugar
½ teaspoon vanilla

Bring the first four ingredients to a boil and continue boiling for 3 minutes.  Turn down heat, and whisk in icing sugar and vanilla. Pour over cooled cake.