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Pretty baby, you might say. But aren’t all babies pretty? (Okay, so maybe some are just cute… or interesting… ) When I look at this picture of myself (taken by Palmer Blair when I was three months old), I do see a pretty baby; but I also see a very round face. And that part has never changed in all these years! No chance of strong, defined cheekbones in this face. Yeah, maybe with the right makeup there could be a hint, but makeup is not one of my strong suits!

And so the issues of appearance begin. Obviously when I was three months old, I was not concerned about my cheekbones or my baby fat. But most people, particularly women, are far too concerned about how they look and, more importantly, how others see them. For most of our lives. Whether we admit it or not.

I am 66 years old. Why am I writing about this now? Well, for one thing, I have spent an inordinate amount of time lately looking for a dress for my son’s wedding. I am a very minor player in this event (well, without me, he wouldn’t be here, of course, but you know what I mean!) and truthfully people are not really going to be looking at me. But the point is that it shouldn’t matter if they are. Because I should be old and wise enough not to care what they think. Within reason of course! Surely there is nothing I would consider wearing that would elicit gasps of horror. It’s the whispers I worry about.

My body. My truth.

So here I am, on the left, at age one. I’d like to think I was walking away from the cake, but that’s not likely! Probably just looking for a plate. And on the right, I am turning eleven and looking at my cake. If you asked me at any point in the past to describe myself at age 11, I would undoubtedly include the word “chubby” along with short (although a relative term, it is also indisputable!) and there would be some mention of the very curly hair, which was much longer than it appears in the photo because of the curl. But tell me: does the little girl in the picture appear “chubby’ to you? Not really. But that is how I saw myself. And not without reason. (And to be honest, I really cannot believe this is me!)

My PapPaw Dixon was, in my opinion and that of many others, a wonderful man! He and my grandmother reared several of his siblings after the passing of both his parents (his father before the youngest child was born and his mother four years later) along with four biological children and another little girl they adopted well into their forties. He was   a magistrate, a clock repairman, a fisherman extraordinaire, and a great grandfather! He loved me dearly ( I am sure I was the favorite grandchild, but I imagine that my cousins and siblings all think they were! We won’t spoil it for them.) But I recall two things about him to this day. He often compared to the comic strip character Little Lulu or Nancy, at the moment I’m not sure which, but they both are described as sassy and spunky, things like that, which are good traits, but he was thinking more of their extremely curly hair and the “chubbiness.” I’d like to think he meant it as a compliment to my intelligence and wit and “smarts,” but I knew even then he didn’t. And another time, he asked me, “How much DO you weigh?” and my response was “too much!” And I walked away. This was probably about the same time the picture above was taken. And I was humiliated and embarrassed, by a man whom I adored. And who I knew adored me. And yet my appearance was not good enough.

My body. My truth.

Many years later, I was complaining to my Daddy (whom I also adored, and who I also know loved me completely) about how my mother-in-law had said something about how tall my sister was (in comparison to me). Let’s point out first of all that said MIL was not exactly breaking any height records herself. And yes, as children, my sister was always taller by virtue of having been born more than three years before I was. That ‘s the way it works. By the time we had both stopped growing, she was still taller but only by an inch or so. Not exactly statistically significant. But Daddy’s response when I was seeking support because MIL thought Linda was so tall? “Maybe it’s because she is so slender.” I didn’t respond, as I recall, but I was “cut to the quick” (using one of my Mother’s phrases). If even Daddy thought I was overweight, then…..

My body. My truth.

I grew up with a mother who was a wonderful cook and, especially, a baker! That love for baking is something I “inherited” from her. I also like to cook healthy meals, so all is not lost. And I am glad that I enjoy food. I am definitely not one of those people who “eat to live.” But this whole story is not about eating or overeating or dieting or anything of the sort. It is about body image. Mine. Yours. Everyone’s. It’s about how we see ourselves. Or maybe more importantly about not caring about how others see us.

People look at this little five-year-old and think “what a cute little girl.” At least I think they do. But I look at it, and the first thing I notice is the skirt riding up in front. (Okay, the dark socks –either red or navy blue, I suspect– are a close second!) And you know what’s scary? Just now I looked at the picture again, and I noticed a little bit of sag in my right knee. There’s more than a little bit of sag in both knees now…. See? It continues.

I’ve been looking through old pictures a lot lately, and this one is probably what started this post forming in my mind. There is no date on the back (there’s a lot of that here!), but I was in my early twenties. (If I was <21, the lovely bandana was covering the frizz that my hair inevitably became when it hit the beach air!)

What I do know is that when I look at this picture now, I do not see fat or chubby or overweight or even out-of-shape. But I also know what was in my mind when the picture was taken. I am surprised that I even let someone snap the shot!

And while we are talking about appearances… these days we know all about SPF and sunscreen, but that shine on my body? Probably not sweat, but baby oil. Maybe even mixed with iodine, to promote tanning. And that little black spot on the towel beside me? Tiny little glasses to protect my eyes (at least we did that) while I basked in the sun for hours on end. Did I enjoy that? Not really. But in the 1970s, a tan was important.

My body. My truth.

This isn’t about vanity. If you have followed me on Facebook at all, you know that I will put on all kinds of costumes. (Sometimes, yes, I have even involved others in this activity!)

I don’t hate my body. It has served me well. It allowed me to have three healthy babies. Okay, so maybe the whole birthing process thing didn’t exactly go as planned and C-sections were involved, but still it is an amazing thing.

Here I am in the early months of the first pregnancy and a few days after the end of the third. And after birthing those babies, I was able to feed them for months afterwards with this body. And you know what? During those three pregnancies, I didn’t worry too much about my weight except for hoping I had gained enough at each check up to make the doctor happy. This body, at its maximum height and at various weights, did its job and did it well.

I have walked 39.3 miles in two days for breast cancer research on seven different weekends. I have walked back-to-back 10K and half-marathons in Ocracoke. I have climbed the highest peak in the Alps on the Grand Slalom World Tour (or something like that). I have taught a gazillion students, one of whom actually told me– yes, out loud in front of her class!– that my “calves are massive”! I have friends who love me no matter what I look like. I have raised three amazing children, all of whom are grateful to have grown taller than their mother!

Appearance is not just about body size and shape. Hair “matters,” if indeed any of it matters. I choose– adamantly– to let mine go gray, which it is doing surprisingly slowly. I lost all that curl about the time stick-straight hair went out of favor. I unashamedly get my hair cut at a low-price establishment; I wash it in the shower and spend approximately 15 seconds drying and “styling” it.  And yet, I don’t really worry too much about hair.

Nails? Well, I long, long ago stopped biting them. I try to keep them fairly uniform in length, but I rarely polish them. And I have never had a mani/pedi. Also, not of much concern.

There are no pictures here of adult me. (Other than the costumed ones.) Not from a couple of years ago when lots of people were saying I was too thin. (What? That’s a new thing!) Not from a couple of years before that, when I was heavier. And not from now, somewhere in-between. Because that is not the point.

Is the battle won? No. Do I still agonize over that dress for the upcoming wedding? Yes. Do I care what other people think? Yes. But maybe not as much, now that I have looked back at some of these pictures. I’m not asking for compliments. I’m exposing my insecurities, my self-doubt, my lifelong feeling of not looking like I think I should look. And I am saying that as I go through my closet and drawers, trying to consolidate the wardrobe, I will keep things in a variety of sizes because I know that this body is not always going to be one size. But it is always going to be the right size.

My body. My truth.

 

Fruitcake has long been disparaged, the punchline in many jokes. Laugh if you will. I like fruitcake. And I love the memories that fruitcake evokes. Bear with me.

This is Sunday evening and that is an appropriate time to write this story, because it has its roots on Sunday afternoons in Boone, usually the Sunday after Thanksgiving if memory serves me.

Once a year for every year I can recall in my childhood and youth, my family worked together to make fruitcake. It was usually on a Sunday afternoon after church and a home-cooked meal. We each had our jobs to do. Mother made the cake batter. Daddy shelled the nuts (if that hadn’t already been done) and cut out brown paper bags to line the pans. He did this in the living room while watching football games. My sister Linda and I opened the containers of candied fruit, poured them into our Grandma Dixon’s big wooden bowl, and stirred to dredge them in flour (so the fruit would not sink to the bottom of the cakes as they baked). We probably chopped or cut the dates and nuts. I remember grimacing as the golden raisins were added. ( I didn’t say I like everything about fruitcake! And there is another story, for another day, about me and raisins and cookies….) Little brother Bill… well, he was there, but I cannot for the life of me remember what his jobs in the fruitcake baking, but he-to this day- rejoices when I bring him fruitcake, so he gets a pass. He was/is the baby and the only boy, so are we surprised by this?  (This is our fruitcake family in a picture taken around fruitcake-making time, in 1970 or so.)

When I say we made fruitcake, I don’t mean that we made “a fruitcake.” That would make it ridiculous to think that it took five (or four!) of us to carry out the task. Oh, no! By the end of the day, we had at least a couple of large round tube pan cakes, plus several loaves, and perhaps a few other assorted sizes.

I don’t remember that Mother ever skipped “real”fruitcake. There was a period of time– in the ’70s– when we experimented with Refrigerator Fruitcake, a concoction that used graham cracker or vanilla wafer crumbs in place of the batter and required only refrigeration and not baking. I believe Linda came across this recipe. My main recollection is that miniature marshmallows were involved (and they get soggy when damp!), and it really was not fruitcake as it was meant to be. It wasn’t awful; it just was’t fruitcake.

We also toyed with fruitcake cookies, which were the same basic recipe as the “real’ thing, just dropped onto a sheet pan and baked. Not bad, but not the same.

So, time passes. Mother never made another fruitcake after 1984. I had an infant then and two more after that. Fruitcake didn’t seem that important. Maybe what brought it back to mind was when a friend gave me an ornament  that was meant to be laughed about and then passed on (per the note that was attached). This artificial fruitcake was the spitting image of the fruitcakes of my childhood! I adored it. I assured the friend who gave it to me that I appreciated it more than she could know but that I would not be passing it on, per the legends of fruitcakes!

And then I discovered the Costco fruitcake. (No, they are not paying me for this but perhaps they should!) Again so very much like the fruitcake of my childhood. It is the fruitcake pictured at the beginning of this post. Scant batter, just enough to hold it all together. Studded with candied fruits of all sorts, including I suppose the mysterious citron of my past. Lots of nuts as well. And the top gloriously decorated with candied cherries and nuts. And it is GOOD.

I just checked the label. The first ingredient– FIRST– is cherries. Never mind that they might have been bleached, dyed, sugared, whatever-ed… cherries are the most predominant ingredient. Y’all– it is fruit cake! (For the record, pineapple, pecans, and walnut are the next three ingredients. Fruit, folks; fruit!) And it looks like my mama’s fruitcake!

But times change, and we grow and learn. So last year I did some investigating into other recipes for fruitcake. And I came across one that sounded like a nice alternative to what I have known and loved for decades.

Same basic pound-cake like batter. But this time (and yes, I tweaked it a bit because it you know me at all, you know I rarely really follow a recipe.) I cut, chopped, or diced a lot of different dried (but not candied) fruits. One thing I added was some lovely organic dried figs, in honor of my beloved Ocracoke. I soaked the fruit in brandy (something Mother might have done in the last years of her baking, when she and Daddy would drive to Blowing Rock and buy brandy– cherry, I think– to soak the fruitcakes after the baking was done.) and I chopped pecans and walnuts that I bought already shelled (Daddy was no longer around to do that part!). And then I waited.

 

 

 

The results were almost perfect! And the cake was delicious. Different but in a good way. I think Mother would approve of the new version. While still not exactly a diet food, it is definitely healthier in lots of ways. And while it didn’t have the family participation, it was still made with lots of love. (Nobody else was home when this happened!)

So I tried it again this year… and well, let’s just say the immediate results were not as good. I now understand why lining the pans with brown paper was a good idea. I don’t recall that Mother’s fruitcakes ever stuck to the pans. ( And this is not selective memory. There were other cakes that did not turn out so well. Case in point: the Easter Basket cake Mother and I created that ended up making the trip to my Dixon grandparents’ house in Shelby in a big old dishpan! Still tasted great, but it wasn’t pretty! No pictures were taken!) Lesson learned. Will forever more line the pans, however “nonstick” they might claim to be. This is what happened this year. But let me tell you, lest you wonder: crumbs taste just as good as slices! And then I had a thought… how about a trifle? So I whipped up a brandy-laced creme anglaise (pudding, if you will!) and whipped some cream, and I created a fruitcake trifle that would make the Biltmore House and other la-di-da establishments envious!  (Hint: crystallized ginger makes almost anything taste good!)

So, you may ask, what is the point of this post? Am I trying to sell you on fruitcake? No, not really. Although I do suggest you give it another chance. (And now that I am retired, maybe I should consider making my new-and-improved fruitcake and selling it! Alternate sources of income are always welcome.)

The point of this post is the importance of tradition. And memories. And family. Yes, I remember the taste of that fruitcake. And how pretty they were. But most of all, as long as I have breath, I will remember my Daddy sitting in his chair in the living room cracking nuts and carefully cutting brown grocery bags to line the pans. I will see Mother cracking eggs, creaming butter and sugar, measuring flour. I will remember me and Linda stirring the fruits with the flour. And Bill… remind, me again Bill (he was Billy then) – what you did. And I will remember it all coming together to form those beautiful cakes. To be savored and shared.

Family. Fruitcake. Forever.

 

 

Well, this won’t be anything epic, but I feel like I should write something tonight. I have been a bit slack (okay, a lot slack!) lately. Call it retirement brain. Call it lots of balls in the air, pans in the fire, stuff going on. Call it what it is: slack. Or maybe I am just boring. (Maybe I have been boring all along but wrote about it anyway.)

For most of my life, the new year really began in August, not January. School, you know. But now that I am retired and the only person directly in my life involved in school is my daughter, who teaches in a year-round school, August no longer has such power over me.  Well, I will always have that August birthday…do you think that predisposed me to life as an educator?

At any rate, I guess I need to fully embrace January 1 as the beginning of the New Year. And no, that does not mean I will be staying up until midnight tonight. My guess is that I have been in bed asleep more December 31s at midnight than not. This one will be no different.

This holiday month leading up to 2019 has been an odd one. There was a trip to Disney World, a truly magical place. There was snow. Oh, how I do love a good snow! And this one was beautiful.There were trees and decorations and cookies and fruitcake (another story for another day). But something was missing. I had trouble getting into the holiday spirit. This has been a difficult year in lots of ways. And a year of change. I wrestled with the decision to retire (and decided to do so) and therefore to leave Ocracoke and a life I had come to love. There have been health issues. Readjustments. Job changes, moves, new relationships, new homes, ….

But Christmas came, and it was great. Christmas music all day long. All my children under one roof for longer than I dared hope. The “boys” playing Nintendo (thanks to Anna who bought retro games for her brothers) and the sounds of Mario filling the den again. (I am NOT happy that Tetris is not an option on the new game set; I AM the Tetris queen!) Lots of good food. And yes, lots of dishes to be washed but that is okay.

And here we are, nearing midnight (10:00 PM IS close to midnight in my book!)… How have I spent the last day of the year? Well, let’s start with the fact that it was another gray, rainy, foggy, dismal day. Seems like there has been an overabundance of those this year! But I seemed to have more energy this morning, as if I had to get a lot done, although once one is retired these “holidays” don’t really make quite as much difference.

So I made granola and kale chips this morning.

I packed away the holiday dishes, ran a few errands, walked on the boring treadmill, cooked a little dinner.Then I started the dreaded task of taking the ornaments off the trees. Can you figure out my method this year?

And before we know it, the sun will rise and a new year will be upon us. I will still be retired. My days will still be my own, to fill as I choose. I hope and pray I choose wisely. Many of the “issues” of 2018 will be still be there. I have plans and goals for the new year. I hesitate to call them “resolutions” but there are things I resolve to do. Nit-picking, I guess. As the new year unfolds, I will address some of those goals., whether I reach them or not. SO here’s to 2019. To health, happiness, fulfillment, peace, and love.

Merry Christmas memories, and Happy New Year 2019!

 

On November 4, 1947, seventy-one years ago, a young Bill Dixon and Willie Hodges went to the parsonage of Boone Methodist Church with their good friends, Ray and Thelma Hallman. And there, the Rev. Joseph Shackford married the two whose families were friends before they were born, even though they lived some 75 miles apart– a great distance in those days. 

This is one of my favorite pictures of them, young and in love. Daddy must have been home on leave early in his time in the Navy (based on the single stripe on his sleeve patch; later ones have three stripes); Mother was a nursing student at Shelby Hospital, just down the street from the Dixon family home. When my Granddaddy Hodges took her to school that first time, he told Papaw and Grandma Dixon to “take care of her.” And the rest… well, that brings us back to November 4, 1947 and a marriage that lasted until “death did them part.”

So, what do dahlias have to do with it? In the overall scheme of things, not so much. But then again, so very much. The story of the dahlias is an example of the love between my parents.

Their 37 years together were not perfect but they were definitely a team. They worked hard to give us– my sister, my brother and me– a good life. One thing they loved to do together was garden. We (and by we I mean mostly they!) always had a big vegetable garden. For a few years they planted strawberries. They ventured briefly into Christmas trees. And always there were flowers. From the glorious red amaryllis that Mother always managed to produce in the bleakest of Boone winters to the enormous Christmas cactus that Daddy kept going for nearly 30 years after her death to the daffodils all over the back yard. For some reason (well, besides the fact that people simply did not take as many pictures as we do now– isn’t digital photography amazing?!) we don’t have lots of pictures of Mother’s flowers. 

This photograph of Linda (age 11) and me (almost 8) with Mother, all wearing dresses she made, shows the window box Daddy made for her, full of sultanas or, as they are now called, impatiens.

At some point, Mother started planting dahlias. Over time, her collection of dahlia tubers grew and grew. Dahlias are pretty easy to grow and they produce spectacular blooms, from tiny to dinner-plate sized. The hard part, if you live in places like Boone, is that they are perennials and must be dug and stored over the winter. Have a half dozen or so plants, no big deal. But in 1984, Mother’s last summer as a gardener, she and Daddy had planted bushels of dahlia tubers. Yes, bushels. They were growing in a long, thick row near their vegetable garden on Doe Ridge, a few miles outside of town.

In early fall, Mother became ill and by the end of September, 1984, after a series of unfortunate events (another story for another day, perhaps) she was in the hospital, unresponsive, and would not come home again. After a week or so, we all had to return to our new normal lives. Daddy went back to work, but he spent most of his waking time outside of work at her bedside. He “visited” her before work, took a sandwich in and ate lunch beside her, and was there until bedtime almost every night.

As winter approached, he took time off from his vigil to go up on the mountain to dig the dahlias. During this time, we all still held out hope that she would recover. We were saving papers and magazines, knowing she would want to catch up on what she had missed. We talked to her, hoping against hope that she could hear us. I took my firstborn, a three-month-old when she entered the hospital, to visit and told them about each other. So Daddy knew he needed to get those dahlias dug, so that the two of them could plant them again in the spring.

So dig he did. Remember, we are taking about bushels of tubers! He spread them out on newspapers to dry a bit before he stored them. Then he returned to Mother’s bedside, no doubt telling her what he had done. And then there was a sudden, unexpected freeze before he got back up there to pack them away. And the dahlias were gone. Frozen. All that work. All that HOPE.

There were many poignant moments during that long ten months, but somehow this one resonated with me. Not the most. Like I said, there are many…. but the image of him digging alone, on the mountain they both loved, doing something for her when there was so little he could do….

I don’t know why it took me so long, because this memory never left me, but it was not until nearly thirty years later, the spring after Daddy died, that I planted my own dahlias. I built (from a kit) a raised bed, filled it with bagged dirt, and planted dahlias.

I watched and I waited. They sprouted. And grew. And bloomed! I was amazed and gratified. The blossoms were as beautiful as I recalled. And for several years, they returned and so did the pleasure they brought me.

Here in Lewisville, the weather is a bit more temperate than it is in Boone. But it still gets cold, sometimes really cold. I carefully layered pine needles or mulch. On the coldest nights, I put down quilts and blankets. But the last two winters, while I was living in Ocracoke, there were some really cold spells and I was not here to protect the garden. This summer only one little plant emerged, with only a couple of small blossoms.

Still beautiful. Still a reminder of my parents and, especially, of his devotion to her in that final year of her life.

When spring comes again, I will plant more dahlias. And this time they will be sharing the flower bed with daffodils transplanted from our home in Boone, bulbs that at one time Mother herself planted. And I will remember. Love.

On May 17, 2003 this sweet kitty was born. And on August 9, twelve weeks later, he came to live with us. Anna and I went to an adoption fair, thinking we were just going to look, but once we saw this precious little fur ball, we were hooked. That was $40 well spent! (And of course, that was only the beginning of the money!) 

(and anybody who knows me and my house knows how amazing it is that I actually found this, without even looking for it today!)

Anna and I were the only ones totally onboard with this decision originally. The males in the household were/are more dog people. (Adam remains steadfastly in that camp!) Eventually Daniel and then Rick came around. Look at this precious little thing! How could you not love him?

Spirit came into our house in part as a compromise to Anna. She was going to school 25 miles from our house and really wanted to move to be closer to her friends (aren’t we glad now we did not do that?!), so the cat she also wanted became my concession. I confess that I was particularly drawn to Spirit because he reminded me of a cat I had as a child. Poor Alfalfa was the victim of rogue dogs; I can still hear my Daddy digging a grave outside my bedroom window one cold night in Boone when I was in bed with strep throat!

From the very beginning, Spirit liked to occupy small spaces. A bag or basket. Even a piece of paper. I think that must be a habit of cats in general but Spirit is the only cat I have ever lived with. (Well, I had a short-term roommate who, without asking me first,  brought home a kitten many years ago. I was terribly allergic and could hardly breathe for the weeks he was in our apartment! I guess love for Spirit– and possibly my advanced age!– trumped my allergies.) We were all fascinated with and amused by his antics.

Christmas was a particular favorite of Spirit’s. He didn’t care much for Thanksgiving because for most of his life we hosted between 35 and 50 people for the feast. He loved his family fiercely but was not a fan of strangers, so this deluge sent him into hiding for hours. But come December, he was all about the trees… sleeping under them, climbing in them. He also liked the wrapping paper.

 

And yes, it is entirely possible that he was allowed on the dining room table at least long enough for me to snap a picture! 

Spirit shared my enthusiasm for bird-watching, although I am not sure his intentions were as pure as mine! But he would spend hours lying on the rug at the front door, watching intently. He also liked to perch on the back of a chair and keep an eye on the shrubbery where birds nested.

If business was slow, he might fall asleep! 😉

And sleep? The boy could sleep! What contortions he could get into. And how soundly he could sleep. Anywhere. Any time. When I had my bunions removed, he slept between my feet. Whenever he slept with any of us, we would allow him to take over the bed and wouldn’t dare move him! I guess that was a holdover from being afraid to waken a sleeping baby (which didn’t happen often in my house!).

Spirit loved to explore and climb. He loved going into our admittedly disaster-zone basement. He could leap from the floor to the countertops to the refrigerator to the soffit above the cabinets. He went through spurts of those acrobatics. He loved Anna’s hair scrunchies and could find them anywhere! He also loved pushing pencils off the countertops. At any point in time, there have probably been a half dozen or so in the floor, behind the refrigerator, etc. We bought him toys, but they were rarely as interesting as our things! Only once did I find him in the clothes dryer, not too long ago. He still enjoyed those small spaces. Often he would sit on the newel at the bottom of the stairs. For a period a few years ago, he started chasing his tail while sitting there. I don’t have video of that, but it was quite entertaining! We were afraid he would get tangled up and get hurt, but it was still amusing to watch– knowing we could rescue him if necessary. But that post also offered him a good view of his surroundings.

Those stairs were a favorite hangout. He could keep track of all the comings and goings, enjoy the sunshine from the Palladian window, and find (apparently) lots of comfortable positions.

For a little more than fifteen years, Spirit shared our home and our lives. At various times, he was a comfort and companion to the four of us. (Adam was already away in college when Spirit joined us.) We talked to him, played with him, let him take over our beds, enlisted the help of neighbors whenever all of us were gone (thanks, Wellses!) and paid the price for leaving him. He was healthy for most of his life. We had one scare which took us to the emergency vet (of course it happened on a weekend!) but that was short-lived. In the last few years he developed am expensive thyroid condition that cost more each month than what the three of us who also take thyroid medicine spend in total, but he was worth it. (And part of his legacy will be our donation of a recently received $100 order to an elderly woman with Alzheimer’s whose cat needs the same medicine.) Spirit had an excellent report after his physical this summer, but with a note that there might be indications of potential kidney problems to come in the next year.

Thursday he was bounding up and down the stairs, eating well, keeping Rick company as he recovers from surgery, and nearly tripping me as he ran past me once on the steps. But Friday morning, October 19, I found him lying peacefully in the hallway upstairs. I knew he was gone as soon as I saw him. Our veterinarian and another vet friend both say it was probably his heart or a blood clot. Whatever it was, we have been assured, there is nothing we could have done and it was a peaceful end.

Fifteen years is a long time, and he was faithful to the end. We love him and will miss him. Godspeed, Spirit! 

 

Most of us know there are two “New Year’s Days” in this country: January 1 and the first day of school. In North Carolina that is largely defined as the first Monday on or after August 25. So here we are.

There is a lot more preparation for the first day of school than there is for January 1. The latter only requires some special food and beverage purchases  and making sure the television is working. The former requires new clothes; trips to the doctor, dentist and hairdresser (and for me, at least, the eye doctor); the trip to buy school supplies; the anticipation of “The Letter” that says who your teacher will be; worry about who will be in your classes (this works for both students and teachers, by the way); picking out the perfect outfit; and the inevitable jitters and sleeplessness.

And for me, having been born on August 24 (Never mind what year! We’ll likely get there before this ends.), this month is all the more reason to think of this time of year as the REAL beginning of a new year.

Tomorrow, students in most schools in the state (and most of the country, except for year-round schools, will be starting in the next couple of weeks) will begin a new school year. And for the first time since 1982, I will not be starting with them. And for only the fourth time in sixty years, since I started first grade! (I had a brief dalliance in research before I returned to what seems to be what I was born to do.)

Pretty stern-looking first grader, huh? Some would say I never got over that. I guess I do look sort of “school marm-ish” with my crisp white shirt and little bow tie!

I have been a student: eight years at Appalachian Elementary School; four years at Watauga High School; three years plus a summer and then a bonus two quarters at Appalachian State; a break and then nearly two years at North Carolina State. I haven’t been an “official” student since 1979, when I completed my Master’s degree, but I have been a learner both officially, in professional development sessions (almost endlessly, it seems) and simply in life.

I have been a teacher: 26 years in NC public schools grades 7-12 (mostly 12) often teaching either extra classes or extended day, and 13 years at the college level. All of these years were in North Carolina Schools. I taught in Wake, Watauga, Forysth, Stokes, and Hyde County public schools. My college experiences included Appalachian State, Winston-Salem State, and Forsyth Tech. Oh! And I worked several years with NC Virtual Public Schools as well.

(And let me say right here that my support of and belief in the public schools of NC– and mainly in the teachers and administrators who make them work– is unwavering. Is the system perfect? No. But does it work? Yes. Do teachers and students deserve better? Yes. Is the fault in the schools or the teachers themselves? No. No. No.)

I have been a facilitator of professional development for other teachers in several areas, including most notably technical math and integrated math, for more than 15 years.

And yet, tomorrow is the first day of school– the first day of the new year– and I am not going back to school! I’m not sure how to act, what to do. It will be interesting to see if I sleep tonight. I haven’t slept well on this night in all those years.

Walking out the door for my last first day, last year!

I think I’ll go walk around Salem Lake tomorrow morning, just because I can. But my heart will be at Ocracoke school, hearing all the excitement as kids roll in (literally– on their bikes!) for the first day. I’ll “hear” the announcements and the Pledge of Allegiance. I’ll “watch” as the students don’t push their chairs in when they leave the Commons, and Mr. Robertson and I will pick up a few left-behind pencils and shake our heads.

And then I will stop and eat lunch on the way home, wherever I want to. I will go to the bathroom whenever I please. If I want to text or make a call, I will. I won’t have to worry about whether I took attendance each period. Good Lord willing, I won’t be making lesson plans in my sleep. I won’t be wondering if there is a better way to explain the Pythagorean Theorem or the Quadratic Formula. I won’t be worried about papers that need to be graded or students who are falling behind. I also won’t be talking to young people about their summers. And I won’t be talking to colleagues about their summers and their plans for the year.. and yes, about the students!

But I will miss it. Oh, I will miss it. This is going to take some getting used to!

 

I am saddened by the recent decision to allow girls to become Cub Scouts and for older girls to earn the rank of Eagle Scout. Girl Scouting has been part of my life for nearly sixty years. Even when there was a break in my active participation, between high school graduation and motherhood, I maintained close ties with my sister scouts.

Much has been said about this decision. There is talk of making the organization more inclusive. Go ahead; be inclusive… of all boys. And let the Girl Scouts do the same for girls. There are no opportunities available to girls as part of “Scouts BSA” (really?!) that are not available to them in Girl Scouting. And there is much value in the sisterhood provided within a troop and the larger organization.

GSUSA hasn’t done itself any favors over the years by changing the name of its highest award. What started as the Golden Eaglet became First Class, then Curved Bar, than back to First Class (my era), and in 1980 the highest award in Girl Scouting became the Gold Award. Girls who earn this accomplish every bit as much as boys who earn their Eagle, but they do not receive the same acclaim and prestige. Is the solution, then, to “allow” females to earn the Eagle award? No! The solution is to give the Gold Award winners their due!

This is a personal story of what Girl Scouting has meant to me. It does not pretend to look at the political ramifications of the decision to allow girls to be “Boy Scouts.” My heart broke last week as I heard young girls talk about wanting to be Cubs “like their brothers.”  Being a girl is not inferior to being a boy. Nor is being a Girl Scout inferior to being a Boy Scout. And to rejoice in this decision is to imply otherwise.

This photo and the one on the top left of this page show me with, respectively, Watauga County Brownies and my own little troop when I was in second grade (at that point, girls had to be seven to join). The photo on the top right is of part of my last troop, the one with whom I graduated from high school. We had lunch together with Mrs. Clara Ray, our leader the last several years– God bless her!– six years ago this summer. And just a week ago, five of us were together again as part of a high school gathering. These are my people. My sisters from other mothers.

From the time I was in second grade until I graduated from high school, I was a Girl Scout. I moved through the ranks: Brownie, Junior, Cadette, Senior. Membership in the troop changed, some coming and some going. Some moved into town; some left town. A few were late-comers to the group but were welcomed into our ranks. We all went to school together, often in the same classes. Several of us went to each of the churches in town, so we were in youth groups together. School and church gave us ample time to be with boys. Girl Scouts gave us a bond that continues to grow. It was a part of who we were.

As Brownies, we learned to knit; we made Christmas ornaments from styrofoam and glitter; and we started to camp. Our first ever campout was in the yard of an old farmhouse that was surrounded by apple trees. As luck — and Boone weather– would have it, a thunderstorm arose. Our leaders decided to take us inside the house for safety.  But they didn’t know what I knew: two members of my mother’s family,  a mother and her baby, had died of influenza in that very house! I kind of preferred taking my chances with the trees. (Is it any wonder that camping is still not my favorite thing?!)

I still have my Brownie and Junior uniforms. Not to make it sound like I am a pack-rat, but look what I found recently: I bought this little comb when my Brownie troop went to Tweetsie Railroad, way back when. I’m not sure why I picked this as my souvenir– probably because it was inexpensive! I’m also not sure why I still have it. But I do recall that several of us wore our hair in pig tails that day (seemed appropriate, for some reason) and I was certain that one of the “Indians” was going to whack off my pigtail with his (fake) knife! Okay, so maybe it hasn’t been all fun and games!

As we continued along our scouting path, we started selling cookies door-to-door, in those little cardboard boxes. A box of cookies cost 50 cents then. It was a different time! We continued to camp and to go to day camp every summer. We pitched big, heavy canvas tents– none of those pop-up things available now and certainly no platform tents ready and waiting. And of course, it inevitably rained when we camped. And if you touched the tent, there was a permanent drip from that spot. We chopped our own wood for the fires over which we cooked. It is entirely possible that I scraped the leg of a fellow scout while sawing a piece of wood. (I won’t name the victim, in hopes that she has forgotten. I have not.) We had visits from the Dodo Bird, a wooden figure we hid in each other’s belongings all week until the final evening when a real, live (human-sized) Dodo Bird came to find the unlucky person stuck with it. (The wooden Dodo is in the lap of one of our little girls in a later picture. We are savers, we Girl Scouts.)

We earned badges, tied knots, had bake sales, carried out service projects. But mostly we spent time together. We were developing bonds that continue to this day. We weren’t competing with boys. We were simply a sisterhood. Each of us had other interests and activities, some of them overlapping, some not. We squabbled (Unbeknownst to us, Mrs. Ray kept a detailed journal which included notes about some of our less-than-finer moments!), but that’s what siblings do. Our other lives included boys: in classes, to be sure; church groups; friendships and dating relationships. Some of those boys were also Scouts. We didn’t feel cheated that we did not/ could not belong to their troop.

As we got older, we took trips to the beach together.

We used our bake sale and cookie money to go on a short cruise before we graduated from high school. We were small town girls and it was 1970; most of us had never even flown in an airplane and I don’t think any of us had ever been on a cruise!

Along the way we earned our First Class award (compared to the current Gold Award and, yes, the boys’ Eagle.) 

And then came college and jobs and eventually, for most of us, marriage and children. I personally was not involved in Girl Scouts for more years than I can now imagine. And then I gave birth to my own little Girl Scout.

And five years later, I was back in the organization to stay. We now both are lifetime members of GSUSA. Anna and I have made wonderful memories together. We sold cookies, marched in parades, did all kinds of crafts, earned lots of badges. We took a memorable (even un-fun things are memorable!) day trip for gem mining. Turns out gem mining is not our thing!

We hiked and camped in Lost Sea, Tennessee, crawling in the dark through muddy crevices we could barely squeeze through; we agree that had we known what we were getting into, we would not have done it! But are we proud of ourselves for doing it. Did we grow from that experience? Absolutely. Do we know not to go again? You bet! (Pictures when I find them!)

We took an amazing trip to Our Chalet, one of the world centers of WAGGGS (World Association of Girl Guides and Girl Scouts) in Switzerland. While there, besides spending time with lots of like-minded (yet different) girls and women, we saw the biggest cows we had ever seen, hiked (and one of us might have fallen down) some steep mountains, ate some amazing cheese and chocolate, dipped our toes in a glacier-fed lake, and so much more. And we grew. As women, as friends, and as mother and daughter.

The summer that Anna turned six, she and I started an adventure that was to last 15 years. We spent one week at Seven Springs Day Camp. That week turned into multiple weeks each summer, ending up with me as the camp’s co-director and Anna as a unit leader. The friendships we forged during that time continue. Below, some of us are gathered to say good-bye to the camp which was closed because of consolidation of councils. 

During the years that I was a troop leader I also became a trainer of other GS leaders. The Girl Scout organization takes leader training seriously. Would-be trainers take part in an intensive three day train-the-trainer session, learning among other things how to work with the adult learner. That training also served me well in my education career as I conducted professional development for other teachers later on.

In addition to helping women learn the basics of program levels, I also wrote most of a four part session that encouraged leaders to guide their troops through science- and math- related badges, and I presented those trainings to hundreds of leaders in our council. I was privileged to go to Edith Macy Conference Center, a world-class facility owned by GSUSA in New York to work with other scouts interested in bringing science and math to girls.

And troop 245 still exists, in some ways, today. The afternoon before we celebrated the 20th anniversary of our high school graduation, many of us got together at Daniel Boone Park. By then, we were scattered across several states. Most of us were married and had become mothers. But once we got together that day, we were still laughing and talking over each other, almost as if our last troop meeting had been just that week. That picnic was now more than 20 years ago! Time really does fly! But when high school friends gather for official reunions or for our now-quarterly lunches, the Girl Scouts still have our own special reunion. Sometimes it is just for a photo or two. But recently we started talking about another beach trip. Wouldn’t that be grand?!

Just last week, Anna texted me: “Today is national s’mores day. We wouldn’t be good Girl Scouts if we didn’t make some.” And, of course, we ARE good Girl Scouts, so here we are!

So back to where I started… I am saddened by the decision to allow girls to become “Boy Scouts” and I am sadder still that some girls, and their parents, seem to think that is better than being a Girl Scout. My sons were both Boy Scouts. One of them earned the Eagle award. I am proud of them both. Am I sorry that my daughter could not be a Cub Scout? No more than I wish the boys could have been Brownies! (although they had to tag along for more meetings than they wanted to!)

Girl Scouting has enriched my life in ways that I have only begun to share. I wish the same friendships, solidarity, growth, exploration, and love for all girls. And for boys, as well, in their own organization. But I believe with all my heart that the experience has been better because it was Girl Scouts.

“Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other is gold. A circle is round, it has no end. That’s how long I will be your friend.”

 

 

 

 

Well, when I got up this morning, I found out that my Hyde County Schools email account has been deactivated so even though I haven’t seen the first retirement check (which is supposed to be what makes it official), it appears that I am retired!

This is me, just after closing the door to my Ocracoke house for the last time. Heading for the ferry. And as I get in the car, what is playing on the radio but… “What a wonderful world”! And what a wonderful world, indeed, my two years in Ocracoke have been.

As I backed down the driveway last August to return to Ocracoke, the song “Turn! Turn! Turn! (To Every Thing There Is a Season)” by The Byrds was playing. That one was especially meaningful since that is what we chose as the theme for our senior yearbook in high school! And it seemed appropriate as I left Lewisville for what I suspected would be my last year as a teacher.

The night before I left Ocracoke, I took the golf cart up to the home of my friend and colleague; we kept it in the family– the math family, that is– Louise is our middle school math teacher.

And I walked back to the house to finish packing. Early the next morning, I closed the door and headed to the ferry for one last trip (well, I plan to return– a lot!– but one last official trip) west.

And I began the nearly eight hour trip back.

Two hours and forty-five minutes on the water. That’s a lot of time for reflection, particularly when your life is about to change in so many ways.

As I drove off the ferry in Swan Quarter, on the mainland, the Beach Boys started singing “Sloop John B” with the lyrics “Let me go home, let me go home; I want to go home, let me go home.”

(Folks, you can’t make this stuff up! Even if my radio is usually tuned to the 60s channel!)

Home. That means a lot of things. Boone, where I grew up and also where my children were born. Lewisville, where I reared those children and worked for most of my career. Where we have a house full of memories and “stuff.” And now Ocracoke.

So here I am back in Lewisville with a carload of that “stuff” to unload. Unpacking will take awhile. And here is the moon over Lewisville that first night. The same moon that was shining over Ocracoke, all those miles and hours away.

I really don’t know what I expected from this experience in Ocracoke. But I know that it was more than I ever dreamed it could be. I am forever changed.

About that title: Math. It’s what I do. Well, I do other things, but… for the better part of the last 44 years, I have been a math teacher. That makes up two-thirds of my life. Like I said: math is what I do. And apparently I do a lot of it!

My first teaching license was issued in (gulp!) 1974; a couple of weeks ago, I renewed it (Had to pay $35 for the “privilege,” for the first time ever) for another five years. But at the same time, I was filling out paperwork for retirement. They say it isn’t even official until I cash the first check, sometime in July. As a matter of fact, school board member and Ocracoke celebrity runner Angie Todd told me that “the plant doesn’t make it official” when she and Leslie Cole, my principal, presented me with a lovely schefflera and plaque this week. So I can still back out!(photo by Leslie Cole)

The Synopsis

Since 1974 I have taught just about every possible math course possible, from seventh grade through college. I’ve taught algebra, geometry, trigonometry, probability, statistics, discrete math, and calculus. I’ve taught through all the configurations of traditional and integrated sequences. Elementary school (in a k-8 school), junior high (the olden days), high school, community college, and university.

My career has taken me from the northwest corner of the state, in Watauga County, to Ocracoke, just about as far east as one can go in NC. My classrooms have been in Wake, Watauga, Forsyth, Stokes, and Hyde counties. It has taken me from a low-income junior high school to two members of the University of North Carolina system. It has included a lot of time working with at-risk students in extended day programs as well as honors students.

In these 44 years (with only a short break along the way), I have worked with countless amazing educators. All these colleagues have helped me to be a better math teacher and a better person. They have helped me grown in my mathematics skills and in my interpersonal skills. They are too numerous to name, lest I omit someone. (If you are one of those people with whom I have worked, consider yourself thanked!)

I am a proud product of North Carolina public schools: Watauga County schools all the way through high school, Appalachian State University for a bachelor’s degree, North Carolina State University for a master’s, teaching all this time only in state schools, sending my children to public schools from high school through university. Does our system have problems? Yes. Do teachers need more respect, more trust, more compensation for their work. Yes. But am I still proud to be NC-educated and a NC educator? Yes, I am!

The Chronology

I was secretary of the Future Teachers of America club when I was a senior in high school (front row in a very scratchy purple wool dress! In case there is any doubt I am the short one.);

 but when I got to college, I majored in mathematics (and eventually doubled in sociology) without the education component. I never really intended to be a teacher. When I graduated a year early in 1973 (sounded like a good idea at the time, but now it just makes me seem a year older than I am!), IBM offered me a job! Way back then, computers were new and women in the field were rare. It was a great opportunity. But they wanted me to go to Chicago for (I believe it was six weeks) training and I was terrified. The recently-brave Beth would jump at that chance, but that was then. Other things transpired (a broken heart, a delayed graduate school fellowship) and so I enrolled in education courses at Appalachian, and a career was born.

My first teaching job was in Wake County: one year in junior high and two in senior high at Wake Forest-Rolesville. Truth be told, it was pretty miserable. Many days the first year I drove home in tears. The next two, in high school, were not as bad; I actually have good memories of those years. (picture from the WFR school newspaper announcing my first retirement. Gosh! 24 is young!)

Nonetheless, in the fall of 1977, I started graduate school at North Carolina State University, planning to leave teaching behind. Before I even graduated, I started a job at IFRP (now called FHI 360), an international company involved in fertility research and public health.

Three years later, I got married and moved back to Boone. Obviously there was not much available in my new field, and so I returned to teaching. The first year I taught seventh and eighth grade math and science in a K-8 school, Cove Creek Elementary.  I worked with some wonderful people, but this was not where I wanted to spend the next thirty years. And then a door opened for me to teach part-time at Appalachian State University. Perfect! (Sanford Hall at ASU where I had most of my math classes– and others, as well–  as a student and taught as an instructor.)

Working with professors who had been my instructors when I was a student was a pleasure. I enjoyed the older students; I enjoyed teaching higher level math (college algebra); it worked well with my young mother status. In the six years I was at App, I gave birth to three babies. With Rick in sales, we were able to work out the schedule so that we needed very little child care (a wonderful woman named June walked up our very steep driveway to take care of my babies when we had to have help).

And then we moved. To Forsyth County. And Winston-Salem State University took me in! What a delightful group of people to work with. Over the phone, sight-unseen, they not only hired me but changed my assignments to fit our schedule better. I worked with such a diverse group of both staff and students, and it was wonderful! WSSU is an HBCU and the irony of my teaching integration to a business calculus class for the first time was not lost on any of us! But then rules changed and the university system no longer needed “adjuncts” and so I moved on to Forsyth Technical Community College, another welcoming place. And yes, it seems that I am indeed a teacher. The community college student is very different from the four-year school student. Most of them are adults who have been, and often still are, working. They see the need for more education. They are paying their own way. It was eye-opening and refreshing.

And then I realized that I needed full-time employment with benefits if we were going to survive financially. And so I took my application to the WSFCS offices and by the end of the week, I was teaching at Glenn High School! For seventeen years, I drove 25 miles each way to GHS. My children all graduated from GHS, the youngest ten years ago this week. (Where did that time go?!)

 

 

And then I decided I needed a change of venue, so I took my markers, notebooks, and calculator and headed to Stokes County. Another 30 minute drive, with a view of Pilot Mountain on the way. Staying in my comfort zone, with only a few years before retirement would have been easier, but I knew it was time for a change. I was learning to be brave.(First day at West Stokes, with flowers from my daughter congratulating me on my brave move!) Again I worked with some wonderful people, but it isn’t a good fit, and I was actually fortunate to be laid off after two years. Last hired, first fired.

And then… serendipity! Ocracoke School was looking for a math teacher, and I was looking for a job! Which brings us to now. In short order, I had that job: Saturday night email; Sunday morning phone call; Thursday morning Skype interview; Thursday afternoon job offer. Time to be brave again!

Fast forward to August, 2016.  Loaded up the car with clothes, books, linens, other necessities. And headed towards the ferry. And there I was: the high school math teacher at Ocracoke School. Tiny little wooden classroom. Twelve students made a large class. So much to learn. No bells (every level from pre-k through 12 is on a different schedule); no buses (bikes and feet and golf carts are the norm); no cafeteria (bring your lunch or go home to eat). But some things don’t change. Math is still math. State requirements are still state requirements. Kids are kids.

But life and school on an island are very different. Everybody knows everybody, and this is both good and bad. Teachers and students and parents see each other at the post office, the local store, the beach, on the street. All. The. Time.

School sports require great commitment; an away game involves missing at least a couple of classes. And everybody plays at least one sport. A visit to the doctor or dentist means a day out of school. Need an eye exam in order to take driver’s ed? Got to leave the island. Class size ranges from 2 to 15. But the classrooms are smaller! And the problems of having most of your class out for some reason or another still exist. When two of thirty students are absent, there is catching up to do, but when it is two out of four or six, the whole picture changes.

And yet, some things do not change. The curriculum for math courses is mandated by the state. The final exams are provided by the state.  And most of our students go on to higher education, so we must prepare them despite our differences.

But back to my story…. I came to Ocracoke School in August, 2016. I immediately felt at home. My room is little; it is all wooden; it is off the “commons” so we hear lots of the comings and goings; but it is well-equipped with a Smartboard and projector, white board, computer devices for all students. It has been a wonderful place to teach. The first year was hard in some ways, as I learned the ins and outs of life in a fishbowl, where everyone knows not only everyone but also everyone’s grandmother! And being the new teacher is not easy anywhere. But I survived and my students survived, and we had another year. Except for the ninth graders who moved up from middle school, my students and I already knew each other. This was a very good year.(Students from my last class, Math III, waiting to leave on the last day. I finally learned not to say “stay in your seat until the bell rings” since we didn’t have bells!)

But now it is time to end this adventure and to close out my career. And so I clean out my classroom for the last time. I post my last grades, attend my last staff meeting, complete those last seemingly endless reports (only this time the questions include “would you accept another position it were offered?” and “Were you paid a fair wage for your job?”) and turned in my keys.(“Representing” from the island on May 16, 2018, as teachers from across the state rallied in Raleigh.)

Am I done “mathing”? No. I will tutor. Maybe teach some homeschooled kids. And I will always, always see math problems in the everyday world. But I won’t be setting the alarm, which only goes off if I forget to turn it off when I get up well before the appointed time. And I hope that soon I won’t find myself planning lessons in the middle of the night for classes that I am not even teaching.

So here I am. Forty-four years after it began. I guess I really am a teacher. I hope I have been a good one.(On my way to my last day of school… ever!)

 

 

 

Two years ago right about now, my Ocracoke Adventure began. It was a Saturday night (not a dark and stormy night, Snoopy!) and I was home alone. I had recently learned that my position was being eliminated because of budget cuts. Last hired, first fired. I was considering my options; returning to my local county schools, checking out other neighboring counties, retiring early and take a reduction in benefits… so that May 28, 2016, evening I was looking at school employment opportunities online.

And there it was: Ocracoke School was seeking a high school math teacher! A couple of times when we were visiting Ocracoke, always just a day trip from the Northern part of the Outer Banks, I had jokingly told my family I was going to teach there someday. And here was my chance.

Full disclosure: I have threatened things like that before. I used to receive email notifications for teachers of Integrated Mathematics. About once a year, we would get a notice that the American College, a high school for American expatriates, in Cairo, Egypt, was looking for an integrated math teacher. And so every time, I would tell my family I was going to go teach in Egypt. I stopped joking about it when the last such email ended with “Most people feel perfectly safe here.” (Sadly that is no longer true, if it was in fact true then.)

Back to May 28, 2016, Memorial Day weekend: I typed up an email expressing my interest in the position at Ocracoke School, attaching my resume. The very next morning, Mr. Walt Padgett, then the principal, called me from his golfing vacation in Tennessee. We talked for about 15 minutes and set up a time to Skype later in the week. On Thursday morning, during my planning period, we had our interview. Unable to load Skype on the computer, I had my phone propped up against my laptop. The three people from Ocracoke who were interviewing me kept changing seats to get a good position in front of their laptop–Mr. Padgett, Leslie Cole (then assistant and now principal), and Lynn King Bowen, who was vacating the math position to become the district tech person. While we were talking, my school custodian unlocked my door and came in to push her dustmop around the desks in my room, oblivious to the fact that I was involved in a conversation! So to say the interview was unconventional is an understatement.

One of them asked if I had ever been to Ocracoke. Later, another one said, “You say you have been here; have you ever been here in the winter?” I replied that I had not but that “I grew up in Boone!” To which Mr. Padgett replied, “then you’ll be fine!” The conversation ended with his saying, “you will hear from me by the end of next week.”

That very afternoon, just as what was potentially my last class ever walked out the door, he called and offered me the position as the high school math teacher at Ocracoke School.

I emailed my husband, who at this point did not know anything about this Ocracoke possibility, and asked what he thought about the idea of my teaching there. His immediate response was hilarious: “Well, it’s remote, but it’s not Egypt!”

And then reality set in. What was I thinking? Where would I live? I wasn’t going to put my bed on a boat! How could I make this happen? And then I remembered that my brother’s mother-in-law (aka my sister-in-law’s mother) owns a little house here. I emailed him immediately and asked if he thought Lynne would be interested in renting me her house.  The magic continued; he read the email and responded right away! And soon I had a place to live.

It is a perfect place for me. Less than a mile from school (okay, so almost every house on the island is less than a mile from school), which is a big deal for me since for the previous nineteen years I had spent nearly thirty minutes each way commuting to school. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms. Not so small as to be confining but not so large as to overwhelm me. And you have to love the address: two sides of my yard are on Cutting Sage Rd. and a third is on Cuttensage Ln. I’ve heard two theories about the names; one involves a concern about correct grammar/spelling and the other involves alcohol!

And so in mid-August, I loaded up the car (You would be surprised how much I can pack into a Camry!) and headed east. Actually I came here for a week in June, thanks to Lynne who had one week available in her summer rentals, and explored the island. I knew it was going to work. So I drove the 4+ hours to Swan Quarter and boarded the ferry with a car full of clothes, linens, books, a few kitchen things… and there I was! On the ferry, ready to start my adventure.

The house had already been reserved for the week of teacher workdays before school started so I stayed in a little apartment about the Village Craftsmen shop, owned by Philip Howard. Philip was my first friend on the island (the first person I even met, besides the Skype group) and he was kind enough to provide me a place to stay that first week. He also gave me some very useful advice: “Don’t say anything to anyone about anyone until you know who they are related to!” Wise advice anywhere but particularly here in this close-knit island community.

And then it was time for school to start. I met the staff, who welcomed me generously. I found my classroom, just off the “Commons” where kids hang out in the mornings, where the high school meets for announcements, where middles schoolers pass through (noisily!) on their way (to classes, the literal hub of the school. And I began to learn the ropes.

There was much to learn. Ocracoke is a pre-K through 12th grade school with about 180 students. The high school has about 50 students. Each grade has one teacher. I am the only high school math teacher. Everyone in the school has lunch at the same time, 45 minutes, because most children go home for lunch. Those who stay bring their food (or parents come to deliver it!) and eat in a common room. After they eat everyone goes outside to play on the playground for the remainder of the time. Teachers rotate lunch duty and otherwise. are also free to go home for lunch. There are no bells, because the three levels are on different schedules. I had to learn not to say things like “you are not dismissed until the bell rings.”

But math is math, and students are students. The biggest difference in the actual classes has been the size of the room and the number of students. The largest class I have had in my two years here was twelve students. This year I have had a total of 34 students in the two semesters; that is five fewer than in my largest class ever. We have access to lots of technology. I have a SmartBoard in my room and, thanks to the grant that opened up this position, each student has some sort of electronic device (Chromebooks are available to all students who do not have their own laptop).

My arrival on the island was followed three weeks later by the arrival of Tropical Storm Hermine. She was followed closely by Hurricane Matthew. Life on an island is different! I learned to watch the weather even more closely than usual. I parked on “higher ground” and walked home in the rain for Hermine, watching as the water rose around the house. I did leave for Matthew because he was so wishy-washy! Good thing, because he did wreak a bit of havoc around here.

And then the next step of “it was meant to be” happened: at the end of October, I went to the mainland for NCCTM annual conference and then home for the weekend. While I was in Boone for the day, I got a phone call (from Greg Honeycutt who it turns out was at Appalachian when I was there!) telling me I had won the golf cart raffle! So not only was I now living on an island and learning how not to act like a “Dingbatter” (someone who moves here from the mainland), but I owned a golf cart which is how the majority of people get around here.

I have tried to immerse myself as much as possible in the life and culture here on the island. I took part in the cookie exchange

and the cake decorating contest (I hope to come back next year with my fig cake for the Fig Festival bake-off the weekend before school starts); I have walked every foot of the roads and paths, countless times; I went to see the new pony last year and to see the rehabilitated turtle release this year; I’ve participated in the Ocracoke Runfest both years; I have supported fish fry and Mexican food fundraisers and volunteered to help at the annual Ocrafolk Festival. I am still a “ding batter,” and always will be, although I still have hopes of connecting with the Dixons of Portsmouth Village; but I have tried to get to know the people and the heritage of Ocracoke. I love having a post office box; just walking into the post office reminds me of my Daddy and his years with the postal service. (What is it about post offices that makes them all smell the same?) By the way, it’s not to late to write to me at PO Box  414! 

For me, one of the best things about Ocracoke School is the age range. Elementary school teachers are among my heroes; their job is many times harder than mine (and remember, I teach math which is rarely seen as a positive!). Getting to see these magicians at work and to spend time with their little people has been so much fun. I have dressed up as Mrs. Pumpkin (which the littlest ones call me year-round), Lucky the Leprechaun, and the Easter Bethy so that I have an excuse to go into their classrooms and visit, read to them, see them perform. And when I have lunch duty, I get to see all my little friends again!

Last August I took this picture of myself, thinking I might want to have a record of the day. Turns out I was right. After much thought and prayer and tears, I have decided to retire at the end of this school year. So this picture was taken on my last first day of school! There will be more to come as I reflect on my teaching career, but this is about my Ocracoke adventure and what it has meant– and continues to mean– to me.

It’s been a great ride!