The Treasure Chair

This morning I walked into the living room to find Owen digging deep under the cushion of a chair.  When I inquired about what he was doing, he knew the jig was up and guiltily replied, "Mom, I put some chips down there last night.  I'm sorry."  As I began my lecture on how to properly dispose of food, I reached my own arm down into the nether-regions of the chair and pulled out at least two different kinds of potato chips, two Hot Wheels cars, a harmonica that's been lost for more than a year, an m&m, a card from the game Memory, a lighter, and a quarter.  When asked why there were so many items shoved down into the chair, Owen explained that that spot was his "treasure chest," and that I had, in fact, "found all the treasures!"  Lucky me.

I know I can't blame Owen for all of the "treasures" I found deep inside the chair, and the reason I know that is because this is not my first treasure chair expedition.  The chair belonged to my great grandma.  It sat in her house for as long as I can remember, and I always loved the velvety purple fabric and the way that you sort of sunk into it when you sat down.  I remember holidays in that chair, the smell of dinner cooking, and me curled up in its cozy seat eating the sweet pickles and cheddar cheese slices I'd swiped from the relish tray.  I felt lucky to inherit the chair from grandma and happily moved it into my first apartment, then into my first home, but it wasn't until our move into home number two that I discovered its secret hiding spot.  

At first we just noticed a rattling sound when we tried to move the chair.  Once we realized that the rattling was coming from the inside, I removed the cushion and reached down into the spot where the arm meets the seat.  The first thing I pulled out was a drumstick (the instrument, not the food).  Next came a pine cone, about 7 beer bottle caps,  and one white Barbie boot that looked like it might have belonged to Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader Barbie (if she existed).  I could attribute the drumstick and bottle tops to Neil, and the pine cone smelled faintly of cinnamon, so I knew it was a wayward Christmas decoration.  But the Barbie Boot?  This was long before we'd even thought about having kids, and there had been very few child visitors to our home at that time in our lives.  However, the chair itself was no stranger to children.  When it sat in my grandmother's house, at least four female grandchildren and five girl great-grandchildren had more than likely played Barbies in it at one time or another; there was a very good chance that Barbie's cowboy boot had been hidden in the chair for a long, long time. I have no memory of ever owning a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader Barbie, but I like to think that at some point I sat in the chair at grandma's, playing Barbies while the grown ups cooked dinner, and decided to put Barbie's boot down in "the treasure chest" for safe keeping...sort of like Owen did with his harmonica, Hot Wheels, and his beloved chips.  

Our chair has seen better days.  There are threadbare sections on it's arms and seat cushion, and the fabric underneath is ripped and hanging loose, but it still looks pretty good considering its age.  The yellowed tag located on the underside of the chair confirms that Great Grandma Mary and Great Grandpa Ben purchased it from The Sunshine Store in Astoria, Illinois on May 12th, 1939. It's been a part of our family for 73 years, and I will continue to treasure our Treasure Chair as long as I live.  

  

Yes. We. Should.

Three score and four years ago my parents brought forth on this continent a new child.  The child was me, and I grew into a quiet, passive, introspective, and sometimes intolerant adult whose pursuit of happiness is often interrupted by minor annoyances.  I've come to realize that the only things I have to fear are idiots themselves.  However, when I ask not what my country can do for me, but what I can do for my country, the answer is simple.  I shall use my formidable presence in the blogesphere to reach literally tens of people in a campaign against the ridiculous.  Consider this my official bid for the presidency.

 

Once elected, my first order of business will be to abolish the production of garters.  Not the type that serve a purpose, like holding up an elderly English gentleman's socks, and you can even keep your Victoria's Secret boudoir versions because they're not really hurting anyone.  In some cases I'm sure they're helping.  What I'm talking about are those satin and lace abominations that are peddled to brides and girls who buy prom dresses.  Those two demographics do not need another piece of fabric to feel obligated to spend too much money on. And while I admit that at my own wedding I fell victim to the suggestive cutesiness perpetrated by the garter tradition, the only real good that came out of it was this:


Dance Machine: The Morning After


Okay.  Wait a minute.  In the fashion of a true politician, I'm going to flip flop on this issues just a little.  Brides can keep their garters when I'm president because there's a considerable amount of joy that I get from the memory of the little guy pictured at left doing the worm with a garter on his head at the center of a circle of my dancing loved ones.  However, there is NO reason high school girls should purchase garters.  It's gross.  And dumb. And as soon as I can get the appropriate legislation passed, it'll be illegal. 

As part of my Anti-Disgusting Initiative, I will also focus on removing abhorrent words from the English language.  Clearly, the word moist will be the first to go.  You can find a better way to describe the delicious cake you just ate, and if you can't, my party promises a thesaurus for every household.  Words like musk, berth, squirt, salve, and pert are just a few on this ever-growing list of terms, many of which are so repulsive that the simple act of speaking them is enough to trigger the gag reflex...I'm looking at you, flaccid. 

And while we're on the subject of words, once elected, I promise to lobby for legislation that targets pretentious pronunciators.  People who pronounce mature "matOOr" or negotiations "negoSEEations" will be fined $5,000 and, in extreme cases, subject to imprisonment until they can be properly rehabilitated.

This is the kind of change I can believe in.  I hope you can, too.
See you at the polls. 

Facebook Told Me...

Facebook Told Me...

By Erin Coulter

You're depressed.

I get it.

Another desperate plea for attention.

You your life!

Uh-huh. 

A vulgar display of pretended perfection.

You're a star.

Sure you are. 

Of a reality show created by you.

But use caution

Because often

Truth, when created, is simply untrue.

Use care

When you share.

Because here words and images become your reflection.

And, if wise,

You'll realize

That we're all here in search of a human connection. 

Comfort and Joy

Top Five Reasons This Christmas is Awesome

5.  As we cuddled up in front of the computer to watch Owen's personalized video message from Santa, he was at first surprised and then a little taken aback by the fact that Santa was calling him by name.  However, as the video progressed, there was a genuine look of wonder on his little face that brought a lump to my throat and a tear to his dad's eye.  This year, Santa is perhaps as real as he'll ever be for Owen, and it's so much fun. 

See Owen's Santa Video Here. 
 

4.  It's been a few years since I felt the need to wield a cookie cutter, but after re-instituting the Fife holiday cookie baking tradition at Grandma's house, there's been no lack of treats this season.  We may have sprinkled and frosted ourselves into a larger pants size, but that's just another reason to buy a new pair of stretchy pants.  And, really, life IS better when your pants are stretchy. 

 

There are at least 6 ornaments on this
especially "boo-tiful" branch.

3.  Even though I was nervous about allowing Owen to hang my highly prized, antique glass ornaments on the tree all by himself, I managed to suppress my Type A tendencies enough to make the tree decorating a family affair.  Sure, there were a few ornament casualties, and the bottom third of the tree is a little more heavily decorated than the top, but my spacial issues are put to rest each evening when I turn on the Christmas tree lights and Owen reminds me that, "Oh!  It's Boo-tiful!"

2.  Trying to navigate the grocery store with my child in tow is an especially harrowing experience during the holiday season.  Having a well thought-out list and a secret lollipop stashed away for use as anti-meltdown collateral gives me the confidence I need to get in the door.  Inevitably, though, around aisle five, the lollipop begins to lose its luster and the cart becomes a little too confining for Owen.  It's usually at that point that I also realize that I forgot to get an apple from aisle one and missed the black olives in aisle two.  At that point, I start to sweat.  The rest of the trip becomes a blurry dash to the checkout line.  By the time I unload the cart at the register (and take stock of all the items I missed on my list), my annoyance level is a code red, and that's when I notice Owen's tiny voice behind me.  He's quietly checking out the impulse buys that are stacked neatly beside the counter and entertaining himself by singing the world's cutest rendition of "Have A Holly Jolly Christmas," and suddenly I can't help but feel merry and bright.  

1.  And this is all I need to keep me warm for the rest of the winter.   

 

Merry Christmas!!!!

Noise Solution

Sometimes I get overwhelmed by noise.  When I'm confronted with too much of it, I can feel my body and brain physically react.  Too many different noises at once will literally set my teeth on edge and cause my jaw and neck muscles to tighten as I work harder to concentrate.  My intolerance for background noise is weird because I consider myself fairly proficient when it comes to multi-tasking.  I can cook a grilled cheese sandwich, sweep the kitchen floor, and update my Facebook status all at the same time; I can grade an essay, shoot off an email to a co-worker, and make a mental lesson plan in the five minutes before school starts.  I can do lots of things all at once, except when it comes to listening. 

When a grown-up conversation is interrupted with incessant pleas from my three-year-old for "more juice," my ability to communicate shuts down until I can appease the child and restart the conversation.  In a classroom full of high school students, many of whom are somehow still unfamiliar with the concept of raising one's hand, I've been known to loudly and forcefully call for a moratorium on talking when my attention is being pulled in too many different directions.  My hatred for shopping is probably linked to my noise aversion; loud music piped through speakers and other shoppers attempting to talk over top of it sends me from zero to annoyed in a matter of seconds.  In the event that I have to grocery shop with my child in tow, my ability to concentrate is so compromised that I'm lucky to make it out of the store with ingredients for one complete meal, and I'm sure my hatred for my cell phone also has something to do with this pesky noise issue of mine. 

I feed my need for quiet whenever and wherever I can.  My drive home from work is usually radio-free, allowing for fifteen minutes of noise detox that I so desperately crave after a typical day of work; I shudder at the thought of how many more detox miles I'd have to accrue if I taught elementary instead of high school students.  Sometimes during lazy winter evenings, Neil will watch the news while Owen watches a movie on the portable DVD player, and I am compelled to retreat to the kitchen to tackle a sink full of dishes.  While I do like to clean (I know, I know.  I have issues), it's not the act of washing dishes that makes me feel better; it's the sound of the water coming out of the faucet, drowning out the din of the dueling televisions with a white noise that soothes me and allows my brain to begin functioning normally again.  Two of the most relaxing hours I spent last summer were on a lawn mower, mowing the grass at my grandma's farm.  Yes, the noise of the mower overshadowed the quiet sounds of nature, but there was something beautiful about the consistent hum of the machine as its static growl allowed me two hours of uninterrupted time with my own thoughts.  

I cannot understand people who are uncomfortable with silence.  Perhaps they are better equipped to deal with the life's noise, but, for me, quiet time is essential to my well-being.  When I teach my students about Henry David Thoreau and his experiment with simplifying his life by retreating from society to live at Walden Pond, I feel a secret sort of kinship with him.  Henry went out alone so he could "reduce life to its lowest terms" and "live deliberately."  While I don't identify with Thoreau's need to abandon modern luxuries and commune with nature (ewwwww...nature), I do understand why he needed to simply retreat for a while in order to figure life out. 

Thoreau's two-year excursion to Walden Pond was pretty hardcore;  as a person whose wellspring of happiness is filled almost exclusively by home and family, I can't identify with a need for complete isolation.  I'd happily settle for a monthly excursion to Walden Pond for two hours of uninterrupted porch time, though.  That would be enough.  I'm sure there will come a time when I will miss the clamor that's created by working and family and the routine of everyday, but for now I'll steal and savor my moments of silence whenever I can because it is during those moments, when my thoughts slow down and my brain catches up, that I remember the importance of appreciating the noise. 

Moseyasaurus

There’s something about a kid in a Halloween costume that always makes me choke up a little, and since I’m not the weepy type, I’m not really sure why. Maybe it’s the costumed cuteness, or perhaps it’s the excitement that is reflected in the eyes of a child peering out from behind a little mask. But mostly I think it’s because Halloween is simply the best, most purely joyful holiday. Halloween lacks the schedule that is associated with most special occasions. There aren't multiple family gatherings to attend, no religious services or taking time out to focus on the real meaning; It’s fabulously fanfare-free, the ultimate goal to assume a fake identity and rake in truckloads of tasty treasure. And last year I saw it all through the eyes of a toddling green dinosaur.

Witches, Disney princesses, Transformers, and ghouls of all makes and models braved the crisp fall air and populated the sidewalks of downtown Canton on Halloween. As we made our way around the square to collect treats from the various merchants and vendors, I walked backwards through the throng of trick or treaters in an effort to capture video footage of my little dino’s first independent trick or treating experience. Dragging his dino tail behind him, he warily approached the first vendor, and after just a little coaxing, uttered his first official “trick or treat.”

His request was greeted with a shiny red lollipop, which he immediately tore open and deposited in his mouth. He enjoyed it so much, in fact, that he had little interest in acquiring more candy. While other children clamored to the next stop, my dino’s floppy dino-feet shuffled slowly along the concrete sidewalk, his blue pumpkin candy container swinging happily from one hand, red lollipop grasped firmly in the other.

He set his pace to mosey, stopping periodically to gaze at the streetlights that were beginning to flicker, or to carefully study the scraping sound that his blue plastic pumpkin made as it bounced and scratched against the surface of one of the tall brick buildings that line the downtown district. He quietly observed the other ghosts and goblins as they zoomed past him in their frenzied quest for more sugar, and the round face that shone out from behind his dino facade wore an expression of perfect, happy contentment.

He was warm inside his furry dino exterior; he had his favorite sticky snack and was still too young to understand that he had not yet reached an acceptable Halloween candy quota. Our little Moseyasaurus had no place to be, and no place he would rather be, besides on an evening walk with the two most important people in his two-year-old life. And it was a rare moment of simple perfection, and in our tiny Coulter circle on that busy city sidewalk, Halloween had never been sweeter.

The Ripple Effect: Part II

Last time I witnessed the ripple effect was during the strike at Illini Bluffs High School.  As a teacher on the line I felt like the rock that had disturbed the smooth surface of the water, and from my unique vantage point, I watched from the center as the ripples widened, floated away from me, and disrupted the placid indifference of my adopted community.  We continue to tread water at Illini Bluffs, but today I find myself in a new position.  Today I'm floating, unnerved and unbuoyed, in a new set of ripples. 

The past week has been a slow goodbye to one of our own.  For the second year in a row, I stood in front of my students and delivered the heart-breaking news that we'd lost another member of our family.  I have done my best to comfort students; I've cried with them, and I've sat in classrooms full of teenagers who have been shocked into silence as they learn how to navigate their grief.  As teachers, we watched as another piece of their childhood eroded away, and it has left us heartsick.  As a mother, I have wept for the lost child and for his shattered family who are left behind to find the strength to make all their pieces fit together again. 

In the ten years I've been involved in my school's community, I've found that there are two cliches about small town life that hold true:  Word travels quickly, and it seems that everyone is related by either blood or marriage to everyone else in town.  You would be hard-pressed to find a community member that isn't touched in some way by the death of Austin Nau, and in the immediate wake of the tragedy, I've watched ripples of comfort turn into waves of support.

Schools from around the area wore orange and black, observed moments of silence, and sent pictures to our school as evidence of their empathy and support.  Facebook became an open forum of grief and served as a make-shift support group, available 24/7 to those in need of a human connection.  Inside my school and out, I've witnessed students, past and present, protect, comfort, and sustain one another, and it is a remarkable sight that has left me overwhelmed by a mixture of emotions.  I am so proud of the people my students have become, and I am humbled by their strength.  In the past two years they've been forced to grow up too quickly, and my heart aches for them.  At our school, as we work to right our ship once again, we find ourselves in new roles.  There have been moments in the past week when being a teacher felt a whole lot like being a parent, and other times when students became unwitting teachers, their examples illustrating lessons about the fragility of our lives and the power of community.

As we prepare to say our final goodbyes to Austin Nau, I am acutely aware of the impact his death has had on our school and the members of this community, but I am also inspired by the legacy he leaves behind.  I have heard first-hand accounts from his friends about how Austin helped to positively change the direction of their lives.  Through organ donation, there are now multiple families whose children will have a more certain future, and while this can't bring Austin back, it certainly keeps him going.  The ripples of Austin's legacy have the potential to reach far beyond his tiny community, and they will be visible for generations to come.  It is my most sincere wish that his family and close friends, the ones at the center of this tragedy, will find peace and solace in that fact, and I hope that all of his loved ones will continue to be upheld, comforted and enveloped by the concentric circles of support that will continue to surround them here at home, Nau and forever.