Gifts of Writing - A Christmas Challenge

Every year at Christmas I have my students write poems to someone in their family to give as a gift at Christmas. They groan and beg not to have to do it but, in the end, they are always happy that I made them and they are always excited to take home their gift.  We talk about why a gift of writing is special - it’s personal, it took a special kind of effort so it shows how much you care, they last and they’re free.

Every January the kids come back to school with tales of sobbing mothers, teary eyed fathers and appreciative siblings who will treasure their gifts of writing forever.

I have decided to challenge you, my faithful readers (thanks for that by the way) to write your own gift of writing. I’ve included the tips I share with my students and that I have used to write my own gift which you’ll find below.

If you’re feeling really brave, post your piece in the comment section for everyone to enjoy. Now, find a quiet space, or a comfy seat at your favourite coffee shop and...happy writing!

Tips:

✵          choose something specific to write about - don’t be too general. Select a memory, tradition, ritual that is special or write about what is unique about them or your relationship. Avoid a ‘Hallmark’ poem that could be given to anyone (no offence to Hallmark, you make great cards!)

✵           it doesn’t have to be about Christmas

✵          consider using your own handwriting instead of typing, it’s more personal. I wrote mine out on nice Christmas paper.

Mia’s Magic

You have become the magic of my Christmas

My own little me spreading Christmas joy wherever you go

Admiring each beautiful, sparkling ornament

as you pull them out from their year long slumber

Placing them thoughtfully on each bough

Stepping back to admire your work

Racing to your advent calendar every morning

Colour coding the mini ornaments as you go

Hovering over your Christmas puzzle

Intent on its completion before you step away

All of these years, I’ve enjoyed the job of

bringing Christmas to our family

But now I have you, my very own angel

Whose beautiful and happy spirit

is beside me all the way

White Nightmare

I have previously written that I sometimes think my children conspire against me and my efforts to keep a nice house. But, on a recent trip home to visit our family in Buffalo, I learned that their efforts are not just concentrated in our home but in the homes of others as well.

My brother and sister-in-law very recently moved into their brand new 4800 square foot house.  It is stunning.  No detail has been overlooked. It’s the kind of house that makes it sad to go home to your own house which you thought was perfectly fine before you left.  It’s decorated in soft colours with beautiful dark hardwood and light carpet under foot.  The family room is particularly beautiful. It is done is shades of white. White chairs, a white couch, white ottomans and white carpet.  I’m sure you can see where this is going.

Now, my in laws are not without children.  They have a daughter the same age as our youngest. But let’s be clear here.  One daughter, a first daughter, is not the same as having multiple children of various ages.  Our youngest is a wild animal compared to her cousin.  It’s like comparing the Tasmanian devil to a fairy princess.  What I’m really saying is that they still actually have control and rules over their daughter where we’re just happy if no one is crying.

After taking my first tour of their newly finished ‘palace’ and sharing my admiration the first clue that things were to go awry showed itself. I could hear screams of delight slightly muffled by the sound of plastic wheels being shuffled along the hardwood floors.  Now, at our house, our plasma cars have their own race track that winds its way around our main floor. The proof is in the permanent marks left on our very nice laminate flooring.  On instinct, I practically dove in front of the Barbie car that my niece was being recklessly pushed around on like an Indy car driver.  I was terrified to look and see what damage had been done.  Thankfully, this hardwood was apparently more durable then our lovely laminate and the kids were given the go ahead to carry on.

Over dinner, my two daughters were seated at their cousin’s very charming Pottery Barn table and chair set for children.  My anxiety began climbing when the pushing started.  And it was my youngest that was to blame. Back and forth, back and forth, again over the hardwood floors went the table. I told them to stop a hundred times. Eric, are you seeing this???  I would later see my sister in-law subtly inspecting the floor underneath the table. I was too afraid to ask if there were any marks. 

Then, the return to dinner. You see, my children can never just finish their meal in one sitting. Oh no. They leave and come back to the table several times before the meal is officially over. This is when things took a really bad turn.  Again, it was my youngest. She crawled up to island where the grownups were eating and helped herself to some more pizza.  She then climbed down and headed for the family room. Now, when I say family room, I don’t mean my family. Oh no, this family room was not designed for this family.

It all happened so fast. One minute she was beside us with pizza sauce on her face and the next she was running faster than Usain Bolt and she was headed straight for the white, very expensive, brand new chair (did I mention the chair is white?).  Eric’s attempt to catch her was futile. We all just watched in horror as she dove face first into the white seat cushion. A gasp could be heard from the mouths of all four adults.  Why did we order pizza? It was a reckless decision.

We immediately went into action.  I was on the ipad googling any tips for cleaning pizza sauce off of a white, very expensive, brand new chair. My sister-in-law was working like a trauma doctor in an emergency room, trying desperately to save the life of the fabric.  Once we realized we had done all that we could, we just waited for the cushion to dry to see if it was going to make it.  My sister-in-law was very gracious considering inside she probably wanted to kill all of us.

I want to be welcome into the homes of others, three children and all.  But are we only safe in worn out shabby homes like ours?  Places where the carpet and furniture were once new too but have been maimed in the battle of living with children who believe every room in the house is a dining space.  This would exclude us from a lot of lovely homes and the homes of a lot of lovely people.  Or maybe we just continue being us, grimy hands and faces and all, and continue counting on the graciousness of our hosts who make us feel comfortable even under the circumstances described above.

The next day, I asked my brother-in-law how the white, expensive, new cushion was doing and he said you couldn’t see it at all…well, my sister-in-law still could but she was really looking.  I felt a flood of relief that we had not permanently ruined the chair.  The relief left as quickly as it came when he added that she was more upset about the purple yogurt on the walls and carpet that she found once we had left. Great.

A Tribute to my Dad

~A tribute to my Dad who died ten years ago today, December 2, 2001~

Ten years ago, on December 2, 2001, my father passed away suddenly. It was a devestating time and those early days still haunt me. But time has helped to heal that raw pain and allowed me to see beyond my grief. Now, I stand in wonder of the man I knew as Dad. How does one pay proper tribute to someone who was larger than life? To someone who left his life far earlier than he ever should have. I have been thinking about this piece for quite some time, as the ten year anniversary of his death approached. What could I say to properly acknowledge the man he was? How could I possibly put into words how much he meant to all who knew him and how much he has been missed over these last ten years? My father’s spirit was a generous and happy one. He left a legacy of being an amazing husband, father, son, friend, brother, neighbour and educator.

I am always so proud to tell people who my dad was. I am always so happy when people stop to share a story with me about him.  He was kind and he was sincere and he was loved by all who knew him.  This was a man who made breakfast every morning for his wife and dinner every night for our family.  He did all of the grocery shopping and all of the baking.  I know you don’t believe a man like this could possibly exist, but he did. We were spoiled by his generosity and we all wish we could go back and show him the gratitude he deserved.  Still, he knew we loved him and we know he loved us and that has to be enough.

One of the only things I can remember about his funeral was during the eulogy from his best friend, Dave.  He told the mourning audience that, “I know of no man who could overall an engine and then go into the house and make ginger snap cookies.” There are so many memories and stories that I could share, but I’m going to leave you with just one that is fitting for this time of year.

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Every year on Christmas Eve, for many years beginning when I was just a young child, my family’s very own Secret Santa would pay us a visit. Every Christmas morning, my sisters and I would run to the front door to find what secret Santa had left us.  My dad tried in vain to figure out who was paying us these magical visits. He would wait up until all hours trying to catch them in the act.  One year, he even followed the tracks left in the snow out of our front door and around the block. He suspected a few people but was never able to discover their true identity.

We were always sure that our Secret Santa came to us because of Dad and the Christmas Eve after his death we received this letter from them.

Dear Bowman Family,                                                                                                                  
Christmas 2001

No one can imagine how difficult this Christmas is for you and with that in mind, we debated about continuing the “Secret Santa”. Since it all started through the kindness and concern of one very special person, Peter Bowman, we decided that he would not want it to stop. Instead, we thought we would tell you how it all began.

Approximately seventeen years ago, in the staff room of Juliet Public School, a very concerned teacher came through the staff room door with a dilemma.  It seems that Peter had told his Grade 7 class that they should be cautious about making comments regarding Santa Claus on the playground as many primary students in the school still believed that Santa Claus was real.  Apparently, after saying this, one young girl in his Grade 7 class became very upset and said that she still really did believe in Santa Claus.  After much staff room discussion, the final comment was, “Surely by the time you reach Grade 7, you know there isn’t a real Santa Claus!”

This seemed to convince Peter that the young girl in his classroom was just looking for a bit of attention, but in the days to follow, he mentioned it to me often, “Do you really think she still believed in Santa Claus?” That year, we decided to remind Peter that there is a Santa Claus and we related it to the story ‘Yes Virginia, There is a Santa Claus’ and so – Secret Santa has been visiting ever since and enjoying every moment of it.

I only worked for your husband and father for a short time but have been in his company on and off for the past seventeen years.  He was one of the most conscientious and caring people I have ever met – one who touched the lives of many people and encouraged many of their personal worth.  Whenever I met him he talked of his wonderful family and how proud he was of his daughters. He truly was an inspiration to all of us.

Now, not only do I believe in Santa but I believe in angels too. For God to take someone so special from here on earth, there must be a much more important role for him in Heaven. 

God Bless Your Family,

Secret Santa

We miss you Dad and we are so sad not to have had you with us all of these years.

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.