St. Paddy's Day Confession

         

                Green beer and clothing, shamrock decorations and drunken parties were my only expectations of a grand Saint Paddy’s day for many-a year. I was at college, far from the green land of Lancaster. Even the Irish Catholic students drank until the div’il took them up by the ankles and dropped them on their heads. Then the road rose up to greet me.

            The road of life was a tricky one for me. There were paths not taken, paths stumbled by, paths fallen off. You get the picture. But the road I took when I moved home to complete my B.A. at Millersville (State College in those days) was a major change of direction. I chose some interesting electives to finish my degree; one of those was a course in International Folk Music. Of course we had a research paper and project to complete. As I cast about for subjects, I remembered my Irish grandfather’s love of music.

 My precious few memories of him included evenings at the Marley family home on Mary Street, singing along with Mitch Miller. I would be in my footed pajamas and Grandpa would be in the worn recliner behind me. Grandpa would be singing while I danced in front of the TV screen , smearing the glass as my finger followed the ball that bounced along over the words to the song. All the singers were men on that program, and it would be many years before I encountered another all-male choir. This love of music, sung for personal enjoyment, was a common experience in those days. It is a background I treasure today. An Irishman’s love of song was my inspiration. Irish Folk Music would be my topic for the elective credits.

Research took me to O’ Carolan’s harp, the bodhran drum, fiddle tunes, and the melodies that had followed the Wild Geese, or Irish mercenaries, to America. These were melodies still played by traditional folk singers in Appalachia and New York City. I purchased vinyl records of The Chieftains, Derek Bell as a solo harpist, and Van Morrison (all in the Irish music section at Stan’s Record Bar - can you believe it?). Soon I would go to a Lancaster Irish society’s step-dancing event. And there I would begin to hear about the Troubles and the Church – political conflict that still blows up in Dublin from time to time. A book titled Saints, Scholars and Kings: The Golden Age of Ireland cemented my sympathy for all things Irish. The British brutally dismantled a highly developed culture when they colonized the island.

I have two Irish passions today. One is the mythic history of ancient Ireland. Ever since I watched the Walt Disney movie Darby O’Gill and the Little People , I have been fascinated by fairies, leprechauns, and elves.  When Darby entered the hall of the King of the leprechauns, wee people danced about his feet and then rode tiny horses out onto the mountain. It was a special effects miracle for that time. I discovered a love of reading fantasy novels next, which  came of age with Tolkein.  Wizards and witches  followed close on The Hobbit’s heels.  Today I am struggling to write an ancient Irish novel like Julliet Marillier’s Sevenwaters series. The plots of the oldest Irish folktales are told in a world of Kings, Druids, healers, witches, and the mysterious creatures of the first world. Escaping into a misty world of magical beings and forest spirituality cannot be overrated.

My second interest is my own Irish history. Grandpa died when I was only seven. I have always believed that we would have become great friends, had he lived. I have a picture of my Dad, my Grandpa, his father, and my great-great-grandfather taken around 1930. They seem poised to speak to me, and sometimes I wait to see if they will. I look into their eyes with so much longing. I have gotten as far back as the oldest man - Adam Marley’s birth in 1852. Did his parents come from Ireland? Or were his many-times- great-grandparents among the Scots-Irish who guarded Columbia from Indian tribes across the Susquehanna in the 1700’s? Did some of them play the fiddle, or tell stories about an Irish home?   

And here we are on Saint Patrick’s Day, 2015. I haven’t been to a party with shamrocks or green beer for a long time. I enjoy hearing the music I love on the TV and radio for a day or two. I am glad that there is a day to celebrate the Irish in America. Other immigrant groups don’t have the distinction. But other groups aren’t associated with drunkenness as the Irish are. I had an Irish friend who never drank on St. Paddy’s day. He said it was a day to honor a Saint. We used to laugh at his sensitivity, but I wouldn’t laugh today. I think of the people who brought creativity, faith, and magic to light while suffering incredible hardships. They are what I celebrate.

The Teacher in Me.

                In my early days of teaching, I heard a lot about the carrot and the stick. There were traditionally two ways of changing behavior (which I always thought was a strange way to characterize learning. But I have never much cared for behaviorists.) A horse was encouraged to move forward by having a carrot held before him. The stick was beating him from behind.

                As I took my place in the human laboratory that is a classroom, I learned to do both. I viewed the carrot as the praise I put on papers, the encouragement I gave in the classroom, the enthusiasm I displayed in my lessons, and the trust I built between myself and my captives. The stick was the grades. Standard practice reasoned that students would find motivation in the desire for good grades. Work that was difficult and justified poor grades would therefore raise the bar of performance.

                In time I realized that the stick worked for a minority of my students. Some were not prepared by their families to desire education. Others felt that reading and writing were a waste of time. Some truly believed that they would never be capable of succeeding in an English classroom. I wanted all my students to succeed. I lowered the bar, or inflated the grades.

                I have taken a lot of heat for that over the years. There are times when I have believed I was not doing my students justice, or I was a lazy teacher, or I wasn’t fit to be a teacher. Then I noticed another thing. The students who wanted to learn more and excel at the subject did. I didn’t shake their desire to read more and express themselves in writing. I felt that I was not doing them any harm. I could engage them in intelligent discussion and academic thinking in the class. I pointed out where they could improve in their writing. They usually did so because they wanted to.  

                At the college level, I have been unable to shake the philosophy and the style of instruction I  learned in 15 years. I tell myself I must be more demanding, I must give more D’s, I will be less forgiving of late papers and absences. It never works. I hear the philosophies of other teachers – people I respect – and the sub-text is that I am not a good teacher. Perhaps I am not. That is a devastating notion to one who has taught for 25 years. But my rationalization is that my teaching fits my personality, and there is room in the profession for those who wish to inspire students to think and write and feel good about it. I feel especially justified in that when I teach future nurses and policemen and the many people who will never write a paper for an M.A. or scientific journal.

                A woman I also respect recently expressed it this way:

                …opening hearts opens minds. If we can keep the hearts open, and get 
                good conversation and discussion building out of that heart-space, 
                then they will learn the critical thinking skills that are so necessary for 
                those who will be leading us into the future.”              --Beth Weaver-Kreider

I will hang my hat on that.

Imagine Being Helpful

What follows is a dream and that is all it is.

Imagine…

Every time a company started dumping safe chemicals onto the land or into the water in safe amounts, hundreds of people went there and scooped up a jar or bucket or plastic deli container of the safe chemicals in safe amounts and dumped it on  the company’s offices and the CEO’s homes and the parking lots and flower gardens and lawns of those people’s properties who started those projects.

Imagine that…

And every time a legislator or commissioner or PAC member voted to allow safe amounts of safe chemicals to be spilled onto the land or into the water, hundreds of people went there and scooped up a jar or bucket or plastic deli container of the safe chemicals in safe amounts and dumped it on the parking lots and flower gardens and lawns of those public servants who are working so hard to protect the public.

Imagine all those people’s lawns and flowers and vegetables and clean driveways were helped by the safe amounts of safe chemicals poured thereon by the helpful hundreds of citizens who sought to let them experience the joys of safe amounts of safe chemicals on the earth and in the water.

Imagine that….

Imagine…

That was only a dream, but it was a good one.

Thanksgiving 2014

While trying to be thankful…

I must suspend sentimentality for the past.

          In the 1960’s, my definition of the holiday season was set. Family was large and met every year precisely when the matriarch had planned. With it came a subconscious set of values about the meaning of celebration.

          People bemoan the loss of “family values” today. It serves to resurrect an image of Norman Rockwell contentedness, and a guilty sense that we should try to fit the image. We aren’t those people. A day to put our feet up and relax together does not inspire me to put together a picturesque meal for 20. I tried to be the matriarch a few times and was never very happy with the results. First there was the coordination of schedules, then hours of manual labor, and a huge mess to deal with afterward. It didn’t taste like Grandma’s meal anyway! I have a new respect for the determination of my mother and grandmother. I have also realized that they weren’t working outside the home the day before the party.

          Today I sit with my husband as a turkey breast roasts in the oven, boxes of Stove Top stuffing and the stir and bake Campbell’s green bean casserole wait by the stove. We manage to copy the basic appearance of a traditional meal, but it doesn’t capture that sense of overabundance, security, and clannish community we used to enjoy. We aren’t financially secure the way my parents were. Their mortgage was nearly paid, their healthcare covered by Dad’s employer. It is easy to worry that we have no windfall and that the loss of health or jobs could leave us without resources. Gratitude doesn’t come as easily as it used to for me.

           But if I let go of the American Thanksgiving of the 20^th Century, I can be happy. John and I are ready to watch the Eagles together – and they have been playing really well. Woody is getting good grades and staying out of trouble. I will be able to visit my sister later knowing she is secure and managing to take care of our mother without losing her mind. I can avoid playing a video game and write something sometimes. It is the things that go right that I am grateful for. In 1965, I could never have imagined being grateful for things that come without trimmings – or Norman Rockefeller (er- Rockwell) iconography.

          Happy Thursday off, everybody. It is going to be another good day.