Gold

Randy Jackson. Coach.

At Robinson Junior High School, from 1979- 1981, I got to know 'Coach.' It was during this time that my siblings and I re-entered the world of public schooling~ and I became like the proverbial child in a candy store. Everything was new and exciting... and tempting. My internal compass had been skewed, albeit briefly, but I was lucky enough to find North again with the wisdom and words from an educator I had just met. Coach.

A requirement in our junior high schooling was that each student had to participate in a physical education class~ I believe. (Had it not been, there's no way I would've taken it!) The boys and girls had gender designated teachers- Mrs. Moberly for the girls and Coach Jackson for the boys. Since we shared a gym, the boys and girls inevitably interacted, (like moths to the flame) and that meant we girls, too, had access to Coach.

As I was reflecting in the early hours of this morning while composing this post in virtual head space, my husband asked me why I remembered Coach so well. Since that asking, I've been struggling to answer the question of 'Why?' Why did this man~ Coach Jackson~ who I knew for a brief two years in my youth, and saw for maybe an hour a day~ why did I remember him and why do I deeply feel his loss almost 30 years later?

As many, I've been really fortunate to have had a handful of wonderful teachers on this journey. I know the impact an educator can have, and I aspire to that in my interactions with my own students. Coach always stood out though. He transcended routine classroom lessons (and those gawd awful up/downs!) and saw the vulnerable kid standing there before him. And in our little world, this man, this local hero, this survivor, saw us. He was simply 'gold.'

Prepubescent teens are a challenging age to work with, and even more challenging to get 'through to' because they are not only sorting out their place in the world, but are doing so with a lethal combination of hormones~ randomly firing and misfiring with no regard for timing or situation.
Coach seemed undaunted by our insecurities and he knew when to listen and when to talk. He didn't mince words. He embraced tough love, as I imagine he did with his own daughters, and he told you the truth~ whether you asked to hear it or not.
I don't recall how I, along with many others, found time to just hang out with Coach during classes, but I did. I took a junior high 'boy' concern to him (this was not the readjusting my compass needed. Grin.) and he let me know essentially what author Greg Behrendt has made millions off of... He's Just Not That Into You. And when he was right~ which he was~he didn't take any pleasure in it, but just gave me a subtle nod of the head. Empathetic. I learned he was an adult I could trust.

Fast forward 15 years. My sister Nancy and I would take a trip down memory lane (or at least 3rd Street) when I'd find my way home to Wichita, and often times Coach's name would come up. Being spontaneous and never one to miss a chance to connect, Nan suggested we go by Robinson and see just who was still there. We drove around the back , parked (in the teachers' lot!) and instantly recognized Coach out on the field with a class. As we walked up, he had this huge smile on his face and said, 'It's the Klein sisters.' He still knew us! He still knew us.

Thinking about that impromptu visit, and subsequent others, (although now I know they were too few) it's easy to see why Coach is remembered. He, with all of his thousands of students over the years, still remembered two awkward girls who briefly alit in his world.

And we weren't alone. I had the privilege of my schedule to be able to spend some time with Coach last week up at Wesley. They should've just put a revolving door on his room. Truly. Students, players, teammates, colleagues, and of course family, were all just seeking one more memory with this man we mutually love. His gift not only entailed the brief two years I knew him 30 years ago, but also encompassed others who sought to tell their Coach stories, and briefly, transported us back to those days when concerns were juvenile and hearts were freely open.
As I held Coach's hand to tell him I had to go back to KC~ avoiding telling him 'goodbye,' he saw my fears, looked me in the eyes and instead just said. 'Be good.' I'm trying, Coach. I'm trying.

Last night, I decided (upon hearing of Coach physically exiting this world) to finally watch the documentary on the WSU football team airplane crash of 1970, Black and Gold, and to learn more about the life of this man I admire. Through the retelling of that devastating event, I was afforded the opportunity to see Coach- the man. It occured to me as I was watching him, along with other surviving players recalling that day, that his pain, his loss, was our gain. He was strong in our youthful eyes. We didn't understand mortality. But he did. And he decided to not just survive, but to live. We experienced his vitality, his passion.... his compassion. We were the benefactors.
The first string football players flew on the 'gold' Lockheed that day heading toward Utah. It comes as no suprise that Coach Jackson was on that plane. First string...gold...husband, father, grandfather, teacher, teammate, friend, colleague...Coach.
'We still friends.' Always.

UnBlocked

Not one to typically air my dirty laundry (unless there's a comedy opportunity in there somewhere, usually at my expense) and, in fact, one to not even mention her...well...unmentionables (I even have this special little folding technique so nothing revealing should be... revealed. I digress.) this penning finds me right in the middle of a rapid spin cycle~ in a washing machine with one of those voyeuristic glass front doors that allows for glimpses of inner tumblings and tangles, moving, but never advancing.
A reasonably deliberate person, measuring the weight of words as if flecks of discovered gold, I know the implications that can ensue with the written word if not received or interpreted in the manner the writer intended. I also know the damage that comes via verbal venues- or the absence of. With pointed reflection of weeks now, and with considerations which provided alternate endings in those murky hours few roam, I begin...

This is a love story.

As an 'old soul' (working backwards through this life), I grew up emotionally fairly early, thrust even further toward that end when my parents divorced. My own legal division from my children's father pushed me even deeper along those lines, but not without fallout and casualties~ and even more surprising, repeated rounds from friendly fire. Those who have traipsed similar paths know that relationships~ even at their best are complicated and evolving, and, at their worst, can be altering- changing the cellular composition without even a conscious nod. There are times, not often, but sometimes, those evanescent scars become exposed again no matter the layerings to mask them...

The man, my father, whose DNA battled to prescribe parts of who I am, has 'Blocked' me from Facebook. He has not told me this. We have not spoken. I learned of this from his (first) Ex-wife (my mom) who noticed that he friended his Ex-father-in-law (my grandfather, her father); and when I went to peruse my grandfather's page, (after all, 4 generations on FB is pretty impressive!) through a series of searches and clicks, sidestepping inane quizzes (this time), it was with rising anxiety, laden with disbelief, I became increasingly aware that I, the child who provided him his first opportunity to become a father, was no longer allowed into his life.
As I write this, it's almost laughable. 'Really? You blocked me... from FB?'...an action my 11 year old might simultaneously embrace and discard in a matter of moments. Me? Not your Ex-father-in-law or those friends both equally loathed and loved the past 40 years?
Me.
Almost laughable.

(For those of you who have asked for more of me in this format, I do note here the irony in that this 'blocking' if you will, has freed me to write again, providing an end to this writer's hiatus.)

I told you this was a love story. I will always love my father, as good daughters are expected to do. But I also love the girl that didn't have the option of 'blocking' those experiences as a young, developing woman-person who was seeking a man's approval (from the most influential man in her life) and found less than. You can't erase defining moments. You can forgive and can even forget, but the ghosts remain...
...At age 15 when seeking approval in your first grown up bathing suit (that your aunt~ his sister, your namesake, took you to purchase...) In your youthful naivety, you dare to model your slim, pubescent body and reveal your vulnerabilities, as deep as the plunging neckline of a suit revealing the tracings of a woman. So, you descend the stairs of his childhood home, watching, reading...seeking answers of approval in his gaze.
And you find what remains, almost 30 years later, of that exposing is that you were merely the sum of your parts, and that if you were to 'suck in' your (young? smooth? concave?) stomach, then THAT, indeed, would be perfect....
Or, that sisters can still share a look and feel the reckless barb regarding a spirited, playful photo (from a marriage long ago expired) where we dared to reveal our garters under our wedding garb. 'I've seen a better pair of legs on a piano. Not a good pair in the bunch.' Collateral damage is harder to deny when there are witnesses.

Once, travelling in the car on a designated summer weekend back East, my father was listening to my siblings and I as we recalled events we shared upon summer and weekend visits at his homes. Bothered by our recallings, he dared to ask if we had any good memories of him~ clearly reflective in that moment and seeking. But not truly hearing us. Yes, Dad. I do. As I hope you do.
But what you missed, what we allowed for in the wisdom of children who still believed in goodness, and what we were willing to embrace unconditionally in our youth if it provided us a tangible linking to you, was that we all have failings, we are worthy of love and life doesn't promise us anything.

I was publicly told I 'no longer exist' to you at what was to be a joyful gathering two Julys ago. And while my sister strove to bridge that expansive gap, you made it personal. I am culpable. I did not reach out when my life was unraveling and 'update' you at regular intervals. I didn't let you in. I didn't seek out your advice. But it wasn't about you... It seemed easier for you to deny me than to admit that you wanted to be needed, but that you weren't equipped with the skills to know how to reach out~ but that you were there. A door closed instead.

I (that girl, this woman) am also my own person and cannot follow blindly a prescribed protocol from your youth where all children are to seek out the all-knowing father while he imparted his wisdom; that simply by nature of our births, you are worthy. I doubt I was what you imagined when you first held me. I doubt I am today any more familiar to you.

So now, as I reflect on this writing and debate whether or not to publish it on a site (playing by your rules) you will never see, I wrestle with the worry of hurting you... and of exposing your frailties and your humanness, because, after all, you are still my father. I don't have the capacity to pretend you don't exist or to judge your worthiness.
Remember... this is a love story.

Movement

As I sit here staring at this blank screen, feeling compelled to write, but wanting to say something worthy of being recorded for posterity (or at least for the duration of this read time), I am not unawares of the movement surrounding me~ though I sit and pretend I can't be reached.

This cozy little space I've carved out for myself (like most dwellings I've adopted and relinquished), where I spend my energies enlightening my charges with numbers- partial, equivalent, negative, and Orders of Operations (no donor list registry required,) is rattling and resisting, and the winds are teasing the very foundation whose solidity I find I have taken for granted. I didn't predict these, but I knew they'd come. It's time. There are lessons to be learned. Their arrival is just more direct and more immediate than I would allow for...

Actually, I would've (past tense) sealed the cracks resisting the winds insistence, despite what we were taught in my Kansas youth; a time when Tornado Drill protocol was taught as it's own religion, sometimes even during catechism classes~ and it was this: that to minimize the damage of the gales, it is far better to open the windows and doors, inviting them in, deflating their significance and relieving the pressure, affording the anchoring of the foundation to remain.

Embrace them? But that would sure be hell on one's hair...

These winds aren't of that significance, and I've learned when to take cover and when to watch for the dance of polar cloud opposites. The heat. The lightning. The cooling. The subtleties now instinctual. Flee or ride out the storm? I've tired of hunkering down, trying to predict the precise strike of random blows... awaiting the damage revealed.

So, what of this lengthy, obscure analogy ('What the hell was she saying? Beats me. Probably some bad hair day story or recess duty again. I've 'eard she 'tips the bot'el' a lit'el...') Nah. Well, that last one is true... It's just that I'm learning not to fear adversarial forces (a HUGE lesson for this conflict averse chick) and I am able to stand and face those winds head on, embracing those lessons they carry through with them from places I choose not to travel. So, I've honored my inner siren (wink, wink), I've stood my ground, shetered my own, and safeguarded from directional blows this week.
(And...sardonic link here.)

It's time to go open the door...

Wish I had thought of this...

I love this technique and am already trying it with my class! Genius!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=42E2fAWM6rA

... as if it was MY fault...

Channeling Erma- Incessant Babble (circa 2004)

Dear loved ones,
Just a brief (you know better than to fall for that) note to make an excuse for my not being in communication lately. Had my first official board meeting for PTO and it went really well (say those in attendance; lest I should ever boast) and everyone commented on the organization and the documentation.
As you all who know me, and love me any way, can attest to, I can be a little.... anal? I made binders for all the members, color-coded, outlined everything, divided/ labeled sections and typed and compiled mounds of information that at some point, in our natural lives, someone might ask for. (I'd have been great on Let's Make a Deal! I'm even now carrying Tattoo Goo in my Marilyn bag.)
Lest you think I'm too OCD, you should check out my house. The dust bunnies have multiplied, as they have a way of doing rather prolifically, and have actually morphed into dust foot warmers, ottomans, coffee tables etc. I suppose one day I should actually put away all the Christmas 'stuff' I've now stored in the front living room; hmmm.... Exactly just how many more months is it until this Christmas?
Any way, awakening the next morning (after following a successful first attempt at presiding over a PTO meeting) I prepare to prod my children (what? it was gentle!) out the door to await the bus. ('Free at last...'What?! Just belatedly celebrating MLK, Jr. day) Moments later, after I attempt to get on the computer to refine and compose more PTO stuff, I hear the most blood curdling scream from my first born who is tearing through the door with blood spewing from his mouth.
It would seem, despite one's family religiously watching 'A Christmas Story' several times a season, that one young male third grader, trying to impress 4th graders, would actually stick his tongue, and then forcefully remove it, from the street sign down by the bus stop.
After 45 minutes, the blood finally subsided, with the highly medical technique of applying a raspberry Edy's popsicle directly to the TWO missing areas of skin. My first born (the one so much like his mother) then proceeded to go to school around 10:30 ('Just in time for recess!' he told me~ and following a snack he selected of sour cream and onion ritz chips,) and was now a 'celebrity.'
I was met with responses like, 'Did you go look at the post? You can still see pieces of his tongue with blood on it.' 'There was a trail of blood we followed all the way back to your house.' and my personal favorite (by said first born, upon conversation from wise mother conveying how to prevent the injury should the opportunity ever arise again...) 'I can just do it in the summer.' I kid you not.

Once I return to my sanctuary locally, (okay, I went through the drive-through at the coffee shop) I headed home to find that my computer had the 'mydoom' worm and was destroying my files. What's a girl to do...? Let's see, I already tried clicking my heels... (reference to new tattoo here) so, I did what any of you would do under such circumstances, I opened the bag of Dove chocolates I bought for Kolton's teacher and plunged in.
I was able to eliminate the killer 'worm' in the computer ($60 worth of downloading later) and was going to 'touch base' with you on Thursday, but instead ran errands so I wouldn't have to clean the house. How does one get a flat tire at the exact moment one now has own children, as well as others, in the car? Midas did have free peppermints. And husband had decided to let wife, who is so 'good with others' feelings, tell realtor ( who also happens to be the coordinator of upcoming women's retreat I'm attending in March,) that we are not going to relist with her. (There goes the containers of m&m's I took to the PTO meeting.)

Alas, today we finally arrive at this (bitterly cold) morn, THE day when I planned to 'take charge' of my life, put away those decorations, suck the dustball slippers into oblivion~ only to find that because of the 'chill' in the air, school was cancelled. (Mental note- force smile to the kids as you tell them. Be happy for them.) Sigh...

So, following up a conversation with the employed member of our family, and stopping to take him a latte because the scale had tipped in the wrong direction for him in their weekly weigh-in competition today, I succumbed to a cinnamon white chocolate scone with a latte; therefore, ending my successful protein laden diet streak (of two whole days!)

Following trip to Target to let second spawn spend her birthday money, with the advice and manipulation of first spawn, we arrive at residence only to find the kitchen floor and counter tops cleaning themselves. 'What?' you ask.(I love how you indulge me.) How ironic it would seem that on the very day my mom emails me with 'lots of love pouring down' that I would therefore prove my theory about how bad it could be to have one's washer/ dryer upstairs, because... should it ever overflow/ leak/ shoot all over the bathroom!!!, then it would damage the ceiling in the kitchen. (Don't you hate to always be right? It's such a burden.)
So, it should warm your hearts to know that my kitchen and bathroom floors are now clean. Kolton's tongue continues to work as always (a little biting) and Kallin is wearing jeans that are not, on this particularly frigid day, exposing her crack. Life is good, or at least interesting.
So, now that you have eye strain and you're thanking God for the hand that he has dealt you, I want you to know how much I love and miss~ and NEED each one of you. May all your dust bunnies be neutered.
With you in spirit.
(who else? No, really, come on. Who else could actually relay all this drivel?)
linda

'Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls.'
john donne
linda

Hunger

She arose to the remnants of red scrambled eggs. Her teen made, and consumed, his brain. Food for thought?