I am so distracted tonight, having sat here for a while trying to come up with something to write that I feel strongly about.  The reason I’m distracted is because tomorrow brings some permanent change to our family in the form of a freckled, red headed elementary aged boy.  A boy who will legally become my first grandchild.  I am 15 years older than my mother was when she became a grandmother and I was beginning to think I was never going to be one.  Honestly I wasn’t sure I wanted to be one.

And then I met this child.  The child whose likes and dislikes are just like my sons.  The child who looks somewhat like my son when he was that age.  The child who during one of the first times we met him, laid his head on my son’s shoulder as though they had  been together always.  It was strange, having this child all of a sudden join our family, ours and yet not ours as nearly a year passed in the process of fostering and adopting.

It was a year in which we not only got to know him, but we learned just how strong our son and daughter in law are.  There were hard times and disappointments, times they questioned themselves and their strengths as potential parents.  They didn’t get the chance to grow into their behavior management skills, they had to jump in with both feet, sometimes too harsh, sometimes too lenient but always trying their best for this child.

I’ve watched him grow in the last year, from a tired, underfed, wary child to a boy who loves hugs and tells everyone that he loves them.  He’s smart and energetic and loves to talk and be heard.  He calls me his “proud grandma” and he’s right.  I have so much admiration for a child who has gone through the things he has gone through, things no human should go through, much less a child, and yet he talks about how he plans to be successful, just like other foster kids he’s read about.

He’s excited to start at a new school this year and I’m excited and nervous for him.  I know how the school system can be, judging children by the way they used to be and not how they CAN be.  This kid has so much potential but still carries some heavy baggage.  I’m hoping he ends up with a teacher who sees past the lack of control he has sometimes and sees the potential we know he has.

Unconditional love and support really can change a person’s life.  This is not some kind of artificial self esteem boost, it’s letting someone know that as a family, we will always be there for him, that we will help him stay accountable when he needs to be, lift him up when he needs it and praise him when he earns it.  We’ll cheer him on at sporting events and attend his band concerts – he’s already said he wants to play saxophone.  This child  was a complete stranger a year ago and tomorrow he will change our lives for the better.

So I’m a little distracted tonight.  I want tomorrow to be a wonderful day for this new little family, a day when my grandson can see a brighter future for himself and maybe leave his past behind.

 

Mistakes are proof you are trying.

Mistakes are always forgivable if one has the courage to admit them.

Always remember, a mistake is always a lesson.

Ah yes, encouraging people to keep trying despite their mistakes, that nobody is perfect and that there is always a lesson to learn.  A wonderful sentiment until it is put to the test.  After all, it depends on what kind of mistake a person makes, right?  How big of a mistake is too big?  What kind of mistake is unforgivable?  How many mistakes are we allowed in this life, even if we ask forgiveness?

As teachers we always have that one student (or more : ) who is quick to find fault in others, always waiting for someone else to make a mistake just so that they can point it out and embarrass them.  These are times where I can teach things like kindness, patience and tolerance for others.  I expect these kinds of behaviors from a child, however, I see this more and more everyday from adults, quick to point out the mistakes of others, in the most blatant and unkind way and usually on social media.

How many of us try to cover or hide our mistakes because we’re afraid of what people will do or say or think?  We live in a very critical world right now with many people judging us in terms of how politically correct we are.  For some of us, it has turned into a lesson of knowing when not to say or do anything to avoid someone judging our mistakes.  But is it fair to judge someone for something they did or said in another time or place if they didn’t know better?  And does that mistake take away all of the good things that person did during their lifetime?

I read an article recently where an award named for Laura Engles Wilder was renamed because her books contained “culturally insensitive portrayals”.  The award recognizes authors and illustrators whose books have created a lasting contribution to children’s literature.  I think Wilder’s books do just that as she recreates the stories based on her childhood experiences that children have been reading for decades.  It’s a leap back in time and a way for children to get a glimpse into the past.  The fact that she used what we now consider insensitive portrayals is a lesson we can teach children as they read the books, that this was the way the world was and now this is how we’re working to make the world a better place.  It gives kids a way to compare and contrast, otherwise how will our kids know we are improving as a culture if we whitewash the past?

To Kill A Mockingbird is another such example.  A school district in Mississippi pulled the book because it made people uncomfortable.  Some books are supposed to make people uncomfortable, just like art, music and dance can do.  It can open up raw emotions,  causing you think about moral and ethical issues, and it was written in the context of the time and place.  It is nearly impossible to make real change unless something makes us uncomfortable enough to do it.  Our American history is full of uncomfortable mistakes and erasing them isn’t going to make them magically disappear.  They happened whether we like it or not.  Now, what are we going to do about them?

The philosopher George Santayana is quoted as saying “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”  This may or may not be true, but again, if we try to hide or erase all of our past mistakes instead of studying and trying to learn from them some goofball is going to try it again.  There are very few things we do in life that are completely original mistakes, although my students sometimes try things I would never have thought of.  Just think about it.  Humans all have the same potential to make the same mistakes given the right conditions and especially if they have not learned why something is a mistake.  By not allowing examples of mistakes to exist, we eliminate essential learning material.

Let’s go back to that forgiveness part.  So many times we ask children to say they’re sorry for a mistake they made but they don’t understand why it’s a mistake or they haven’t experienced how their mistake has or can affect other people.  This is why we must maintain examples of mistakes to learn from.  I can tell them all day long they should apologize and ask forgiveness but until they learn how their mistake can hurt themselves and others, it will have no meaning. It could explain why we have so many adults who seem to have difficulty apologizing as well.

I don’t know about you, but I make mistakes regularly and it is never intentional.  It may be because I was uninformed or had an error in judgement, or I was careless about something.  I’m not perfect.  The thing for us to remember is that we are all flawed human beings and rather than condemn people’s actions, this could be an opportunity for dialogue and learning from each other.  It’s the way we should treat our students as well, not attempting to erase their mistakes, but teaching them how they can make life better for themselves and for others by learning from their mistakes.

Two months have passed since I last stepped into my classroom.  I think that’s the longest I’ve ever allowed time to elapse before going back. Before leaving for the summer, I took everything off the walls, cleaned off the desk and counters, put everything into cabinets, and instruments into boxes.  Today I walked into a beautifully clean room thanks to a great custodial staff, and smiled as I looked at the blank slate that was my room.  It was time to begin setting up for the year.

One of the reasons I love school is that everyone gets to begin with a clean slate, both teachers and students alike.  As I set up my room I think about how the kids will see things, traffic patterns, and access to materials.  I also think about things that will capture their attention like the latest dead guy, inspirational posters and bright colors.  Not so much that they distract but enough to get their attention.

There’s something about a new year with a blank lesson plan book, new posters to laminate, new seating arrangements, and new music that makes me feel good.  It’s an opportunity to try new techniques, new materials, and new ideas.  I can’t imagine doing a job where every day just melds into the next.  There’s something refreshing about a clean ending and a clean beginning.  No matter how hard the year before was, there’s always hope going into a new year that things will be better.  And yes, I was one of those nerdy kids who loved getting the new school  supplies at the beginning of every year.

So if things are so great at the beginning of the year, why are so many young people leaving the teaching profession in droves?  Part of me thinks that we, and by we I mean those of us with more experience, have not honestly prepared them for what’s to come.  They get all excited about the preparation for the teaching, the anticipation of standing in front of a group of kids and watching the light bulbs go off.  What they aren’t prepared for are all of the meetings, the endless paperwork for accountability sake, the uncomfortable parent teacher conferences, the lack of funding and necessary materials, the long hours, the wear and tear on a person physically and emotionally.

We don’t tell them that if they’ll stick it out a little longer that it might not get easier but that they’ll get smarter about how they spend their time and effort.  Someone once told me that once you’ve been teaching about 10 years that you finally begin to feel like you know what you’re doing.  If someone only teaches for five years, which seems to be the average, they’re only halfway there.  Are we sharing this with our young teachers?  This is not a profession where you can just walk in and do the job.  It takes years to learn the craft of teaching, more than you could ever get in the degree process or from student teaching.  Just like practicing your music to become a better musician, you have to practice your teaching to become a better teacher.

Practicing takes time and in teaching there has to be that investment of time – time for your students, time for preparation, time for study.  So many of our young teachers are under the impression that teaching is an 8:00-3:00 kind of job with summers off.  Again, we are doing a disservice to our young teachers if we allow them to believe that.  It’s one of the reasons why I insist that my student teachers go to all the before and after school meetings and expect them to work on lesson plans on their own time, not on their teaching time.  I want it to be as close to a real experience as I can so that they know what to expect and not be surprised when they realize that they may be putting in an average of 12-16 hours per day.  NEA (National Education Association) says that teachers put in about 50 hours of instructional time and an additional 12 hours of time to non-compensated school related activities.  At this point in my teaching career, I see it as the nature of the beast and I’ve accepted it.  However, if we’re going to recruit and retain teachers, it’s important to be honest with education majors early in their decision making so they know what they’re getting into.

So, is it worth it?  As I begin my 28th year of teaching, sometimes I wonder.  I do get more and more physically and emotionally tired as each year goes by.  But at the same time, I know that on the first day of school, I’ll have those bright shining faces who will smile and give me a hug when they see me because they’re excited to be back at school and to begin with a clean slate.  And it’s more than enough to get me through another year.

It was the summer of 1974, the transition between junior high and high school.  A transition that consisted of summer band where we learned to play pep band tunes and were introduced to our marching band music.  As we approached the end of summer, right before school started, we boarded buses for band camp, the great unknown as far as I was concerned.  I wasn’t sure how this whole movement and playing thing went, especially as my band director had asked me to switch to saxophone from clarinet because it would put out more sound on the field. So, there I was in my red beanie sitting on a seat in a hot bus in the summer on my way to camp.

This was back in the day of short shorts, tall socks up to you knees and Adidas tennis shoes.  You know, the kind with the leather zig zag down the side of the shoe?  The zig zag that ate up the insides of your knees while you were doing endless repetitions of ankle-knee marching?  Yes, that one.  It was a badge of honor if your knees were bloody and bandaged by the end of camp.

At some point I wrote a letter home saying I hated camp.  It was hot, it was hard, I was tired and there was no guarantee that I would even be in the show.  You see, my director didn’t reveal who was in the show until a couple of days into the camp so that he could see who the best marchers were and here I was, this little sophomore clarinet turned saxophone player and I was hating it.  Until I heard my name called saying that I had made it.  Ok, maybe this wasn’t so bad.  By the time we got to the end of the week and we had run most of the show, I was sold.  This activity was the best thing ever!

While marching band should never be the main vehicle of an instrumental program, for me it was the thing that stretched me most as a person.  I learned grit, determination, striving for excellence, team work, and discipline.  You quickly learn to get over yourself. I remember marching in a driving rain, splashing in the mud during camp, marching in the cold when I couldn’t feel my fingers at football games, leaving a shoe in the mud during a contest and marching in my wet sock.  I remember standing on a dark football field at attention for what seemed like forever when the stadium lights went off during a game and coming in for a halt where I slid on the chalk and landed on my behind in front of the audience and jumped right back up again.  I remember military style inspections before contests where I had to have the serial number of my instrument memorized in case I was asked and the bottom of my shoes had to be clean.

There were cuts and sunburns, hours of ankle-knee, glide and stride steps, afternoon and evening rehearsals. We left our homes for a week of living in a dorm room with each other with our director as our parent and learned responsibility for showing up at indoor and outdoor rehearsals and meals on time, and working on memorization of music in a little corner of the music building by ourselves.  Getting away from home was a great thing and we weren’t just learning how to do marching band, we were learning how to live independently.

As the years went on, I eventually learned how to do a “swirl” drill and play my instrument at the same time – that didn’t happen my sophomore year.  (Shh – don’t tell anyone).  I worked on marching with the newbies and helped sew beanies for them to wear at camp, so that the red from the felt fabric could run into their hair in the rain at some point just like it had mine.  We marched so much that I could march an 8 to 5 step with my eyes closed, feeling the yard line under my arch as my director told me.  I learned muscle control by imagining holding a grape between my cheeks.  I’ll leave that there for now.  The things I learned at band camp are things I used later to work with my husband’s band and other band camps, sharing knowledge to help other kids feel a part of a great activity.

The purpose of band camp was to have a huge amount of time together to get as much of the show on the field before school started so that when we returned to school, we just had to tweak and perfect. I’m not sure I understand why there are schools today who have an entire week together and never touch the drill.  Isn’t that the purpose of camp?  In some places, it’s no longer mandatory for kids to attend camp, in fact teachers are required to be flexible and allow parents to take kids from camp at any time or go on vacation during that time and STILL allow them to participate.  One of the things I learned from being a part of band was commitment to the organization and its members.  I learned that each person was an integral part of the whole and it was important that I was there, not necessarily for me but for others.  It’s a great skill to learn, if kids are allowed to learn it.

I look back on the six years I participated in band camps and the 20 or so I taught afterwards and I can say they helped shape the person I am today.  The story of band camp is the grit, determination, collaboration, commitment, striving for excellence and self discipline that I use every day of my life.  To my marching band colleagues, I wish you a great season of molding young people into the leaders of tomorrow!

There’s a misunderstanding out there among non musicians that if you are a music educator, you can teach anything “music”.  What they fail to understand is that in our infinite wisdom, we have divided ourselves into hundreds of different combinations of music educator, some based on the instrument or instruments we play, whether or not voice is our major instrument, what kind of ensembles we focused on, grade level,etc.  Forget what it says on our college diploma, while it may say K-12 instrumental, the truth is I may be a band person, but have no clue as to how to teach string instruments.

There are so many choices when it comes to being a music educator.  As an instrumentalist, I can play any brass, percussion, string or woodwind instrument.  Within each family I can choose any number of instruments from trumpets to drums to flutes to violins, each with its own technique, repertoire, genres, and, dare I say it – personality.  I can focus on concert or symphonic band, wind ensemble, orchestra, choir, (men’s women’s or mixed) jazz band, jazz choir, marching band, show choir – the list goes on an on.  I can teach elementary, middle school and/or high school or college.

There seems to be some animosity between band and choir people, a type of power struggle for some reason that I’ve never understood.  There always seems to be a fight over students, a competition for recognition in their schools and sometimes an attitude from the instrumental people that says “well, anyone can sing”, or “singers can’t read music”, which honestly, can be correct.  The string people just do their thing quietly and the general music people just love everyone because nobody pays any attention to us anyway.  After all, we only teach elementary.  Which brings me to a hierarchy or caste system within grade levels.  For some reason, people feel that if you’re teaching elementary that you weren’t good enough to teach middle or high school.  The upper levels get all the recognition at contests and concerts and general music teachers keep plugging away at the fundamentals that help the upper grades attain that recognition.  ‘Nuff said.  And of course if you teach college, despite the fact that you may not have taught in a K-12 classroom in 20 years, you still think you know more than those colleagues because you have a PhD after your name.  I think we’ve discussed what I think about this before.

Today I was having lunch with a friend and as we were discussing a mutual acquaintance, she said, oh, he’s such a band director.  We both laughed, knowing exactly what we meant, but again, to the lay person, this may be a bit confusing.  There are way too many details to go through to explain this thoroughly, but let me try.  For instance, my husband’s chosen career for the past 37 years has been a director of bands.  To do this, he had to have a major instrument, in his case, the trumpet, which is a whole other story.  Band directors tend to be do-it-themselves, straight ahead, tell it like it is kinds of people.  They don’t have patience to wait on things like administration and red tape, especially if they can do it themselves.  My husband has been known to mow and stripe his own field for marching band.  You can usually tell who they are at conferences because they choose to wear suits and ties, unless they’re at the college level, in which case it is a turtleneck and jacket, perhaps with leather on the elbows.  Notice that I haven’t mentioned women because this tends to be a “good old boys club” and women are still working to break down the door to that club or at least begin their own.

String people are their own different breed and I think they like it that way.  They dress comfortably, down to the shoes, are not too worried about what others think about them and are extremely organized and seem prepared for anything.  Like strings breaking in the middle of an elementary concert. The ones I know have a good sense of humor, but even they disagree about things like when a student should begin playing with a bow or whether students should sit or stand when they play.

Then their are choral directors.  These are people who have majored in voice/choral music, and while their diploma may say K-12 music, PLEASE don’t put them in front of a band where they have to read more than 4-6 staves of music.  It gets confusing.  While I am generalizing, of course, the hardcore choral people are dressed to the nines with scarves around their necks to protect their voices. They tend to hang out with all of their choral friends and sing wherever they go, because, after all, they carry their instrument with them.  I have a degree in vocal/choral music education and am a soprano,  and for those of you who get it, a soprano married to a trumpet player would normally be a battle of egos, but my husband says what saved me is that I was in band for a long time.  Pretty egotistical of him….

And then there are the general music teachers who can have a background in just about anything because, well  ANYONE with a degree can teach elementary general music, right?  We are the ones who live for comfort because we’re having to get up and down all the time, dance, sing and play instruments with usually six different grade levels of students.  You can spot us at conferences wearing t-shirts with cute graphics, clothing with musical notes on them,  sneakers or Birkenstocks, usually carrying our recorders around our necks or ukulele in our arms.  We understand words like boomwhacker and vibraslap and can say them without laughing.  Most like to get up and play like the children they teach whenever a large group gathers.

So where am I going with this?  Unfortunately, because we, as a profession, have divided ourselves into so many specialities, we fail to recognize that we’re all in this for the same reason – to make sure that every student has access to a quality music education.  And that’s the joy of music – there are so many choices that each student should be able to find something they love if we as educators will get over ourselves and share the students between us.  So while I may laugh at and stereotype band directors and others, for the sake of the kids, I hope we can learn to laugh at ourselves and work together, even if we’re a trumpet player and a soprano.

Baseball.  The Great American pastime.  We sat on the 3rd base side with our son, daughter-in-law and grandson who was full of observations and questions.  We had purchased our food and drinks and settled in to our seats to spend a lazy summer evening at the ball park.  It wasn’t until about the fourth inning that I began to notice the people sitting behind us.

“What were you thinking?”, the woman yelled at the player.  You need to imagine the voice of Howard’s mother on Big Bang Theory for this.  I could only imagine how she must have yelled at her kids while they were growing up.  “That’s it, we’ve lost this, this is terrible” in only the 4th inning.  Sure, the score was 6-0 in favor of the visitors, but we still had half a game to go.  At one point she went on and on about how hot it was where we were sitting (it was actually pretty pleasant) but that maybe if she had another beer she wouldn’t care if it was hot or not.  She slid out of her seat and that’s when I got a good look at her.  About my age with a tie-dyed t-shirt, fanny pack and a white plastic visor stuck between her and the fanny pack there she was –  a serious baseball fan.

Now you have to understand that is NOT major league here, but what I would consider an average minor league team.  It’s cheap entertainment to take the kids to and with Fireworks Friday, it’s a total bargain.  But these two behind us only found things to complain about.  They were highly entertaining and I almost choked when she yelled “move your fanny!!!” at one of the players in Howard’s mother’s voice.  I mean, who uses the word fanny anymore?

Just like so many other things in this world, people are quick to judge but slow to encourage.  Whatever happened to cheering on your team and not tearing them down?  Sure, you paid for your ticket and it would be nice if they won, but isn’t the whole idea  supposed to be a time to enjoy yourself with friends and family on a beautiful summer night?  I’ve sat around people before at sporting events where all they do is criticize the players and coaches, using foul language around whoever happens to be around them, children included.  What are we teaching our kids about playing our best no matter the outcome?  How are we teaching them about good sportsmanship?  In a world where parents start fistfights at kids games, I’m not sure why I’m surprised anymore.

In my classroom we sometimes play games to teach concepts and I have kids who get angry, cry and just want to sit out of them because they get too stressed out.  I find myself  trying to teach kids what a “game” is supposed to be and how we should behave when playing one, the key word here being “play”.  But they don’t get it.  “Nothing is fair, he laughed at me when I did this, she cheated, they cheered when they won and that’s bad sportsmanship” – the list goes on and on.  So then I’m teaching them what good sportsmanship is as well.  It’s a sad thing.

I see this on the playground as well, all judgement, no encouragement and everyone insisting that everything be their interpretation of “fair”.  There is no patience, no give and take, no flexibility and they don’t know how to deal with any of it themselves.  As adults, we’ve not allowed them to create and play games and figure out how to solve problems and conflicts on their own.  None of which is surprising when I see some  parents who can’t do it either and who are every bit as negative as their children.

There is enough seriousness in the world,  and sometimes what we need is a no brainer pastime, something we can all do or attend where we just get to join our friends and family and have fun.  Remember fun?  It’s not all about winning, it’s about participating in or watching activities with people you love to be with.  I’m a competitive person, by the way, but there are times to be competitive and there are times just to let go and have fun and tonight was a time to have fun and not complain.

The good news is that the fireworks apparently made up for the game, which actually turned out not so bad.  We did lose but it was 6-5 in the end.  As the couple behind us oohed and aahhed like little kids over the fireworks, I wish they could have enjoyed the game more.  Life if too short to be grumpy about things that are not that big a deal, so enjoy your family and friends while you can and look for the fun in life, even if the players don’t move their fannies.

 

Our vacation over, we stopped for lunch before our drive home from the airport.  As we were sitting there, three ladies, probably ten or more years older than us and full of character, walked past us to their table.  I tried not to laugh out loud as I overheard one of the ladies say to another, “don’t argue with me – we’re on vacation!”.

Vacations are an interesting thing.  Meant for relaxation or an escape from the everyday, vacations can be wonderful or horrible, depending on who you’re with.  Oh sure, there are circumstances that arise that are unexpected but no matter what you do or where you go, the people you go with really dictate how good your vacation will be.

I have been on vacations with my parents, my kids, my mom AND my kids, my in-laws, my colleagues and my friends.  And the one person I love going on vacation with the most is my best friend, my sometimes colleague and my husband.  Even on our first vacation – our honeymoon – we just had fun wherever we went, either agreeing or compromising on where we wanted to go or what we wanted to see or do.  We just enjoyed being together, no matter what we were doing.  I mean, we had fun trying to guess the composer listening to the classical music station on our wedding night.  Pretty nerdy, but fun!

We usually have one of two kinds of vacations – the vacation where you stay in one place and veg out on a beach somewhere or the kind where you do the marathon to see how many activities and sightseeing you can stuff into your days.  It depends on what kind of year we’ve had that dictates whether or not we want to stay put or run around, but this year we actually combined the two in two very close but very different locales. Most of our week we spent in a great little town two blocks from the beach where we could walk to just about everything and the last two days were spend in L.A. trying to do as many things as we could without killing ourselves.

My husband tends to be the sit on the beach kind of guy and I’m the let’s go out and do something kind of girl so it’s interesting combining the two.  I found myself slowing down and really thinking while I was at the beach where there were not a lot of distractions.  There was an appreciation for those God things – the stars over our deck at night, the sound of the waves on the beach, the smell of the salt water, the feel of the sand and sun, the beautiful plants, flowers and trees.  A morning spent in a speed boat on the ocean where the cool wind whipped our hair and where we bounced on the waves while marveling at literally hundreds of dolphins almost within arms reach was just not long enough.

Walking everywhere gave us time to notice details in the everyday and we found ourselves saying hello to people sitting on their front porches.  The ability to take a nap in the afternoon with all the doors and windows open and the breeze working with the fans made for some major relaxing.  It was the kind of place where you daydream about retiring, spending time taking care of your garden, walking to the beach, meeting with friends to play games on your deck or porch.

Then we Ubered it to L.A.  We stayed right in the heart of the city, just down (and I mean DOWN)  the street from the Disney Music Hall.  The walk up the huge hill to the hall with all of its traffic and honking, the tall buildings, the large numbers of people dashing here and there was in direct contrast to what we had just left and yet such an adventure.  It wasn’t so much the God things that caught your attention here but the creativity of man.  It was in the architecture, the art and the food.  You saw it in forms of transportation and in the way people used it to do everyday things, like someone doing food deliveries on an electric unicycle.

We experienced film history in many different ways from Grauman’s Chinese Theater to the back lots of Warner Brothers.  Films and TV make you feel a connection to people that you’ve never met and so you take a picture with the hand and footprints of Judy Garland, stand in the same gazebo as Lorilei Gilmore or gaze at costumes once worn by Audrey Hepburn.

Yes, it’s all very magical until reality sets in and someone sends an email that reminds you that school and work are waiting for you when you get back.  It was the only time when we got the tiniest bit cranky, but then we reminded each other that until we arrived home, we were still on vacation and as Scarlet O’Hara said, after all, tomorrow is another day.  Life is good.

The young lady was walking down the street towards us, wearing a pretty summer dress and hat to shade her from the sun.  As she walked closer, she stepped over a grate in the sidewalk, and a la Marilyn Monroe, the skirt of the dress blew straight up, revealing the unmentionables underneath.  She immediately pulled down the skirt, lowered her head and walked past us as quickly as she could.  It was only one of the interesting things that happened on our first day in L.A.

After checking in to the hotel, which kindly let us check in early, we took a stroll up a VERY steep hill to take a tour of the Disney Music Hall, the Dorothy Chandler Pavillion and a couple other theaters.  The docent was a former theater teacher in Long Beach and was now a member of the Symphonians, a group who support the work of the LA Philharmonic.  There she was, all dressed in her black with her bright red music scarf that matched the rim of her slightly oversized glasses, dramatically wrapped around her neck.  She was soft spoken but energetic and made it a point to learn everyone’s names in the group, taking time to speak to individuals as we walked between venues.

The other people in the group were from Dubai, Egypt and France with my husband and I being the only ones from the U.S.  It was fascinating to be with these people, listening to their questions and watching their reactions to the venues and artwork.  At one point, our docent spoke to the gentleman from Egypt about how there was some unrest in his country and he told her that things were getting better.  She then shared that there was also unrest in this country to which he responded that since he had come to the U.S. that everyone had been so kind to him and he was really enjoying himself.  Again, just another verification that this country is made of the people, not politicians.  Thank goodness.

As we left the tour, we saw a large number of food trucks with tables and chairs set up under tents in front of the music hall.  Standing in line for food were people dressed up in all kinds of costumes, some reminding me of Star Trek uniforms and others were obviously aliens, some in entire costumes with masks and make-up and some in street clothes and headpieces only.  It was a little surreal to see.  At one point I saw a man in one of the Star Trek type of uniforms walk across our path and I thought, he looks familiar, but that was as far as it went.  We found out that they were filming an episode of a show called The Orville and when we got back to the hotel, I looked it up on the internet, which is when I realized who the person was I saw.  Seth McFarland was the person I had recognized.  Oh well, I never said I was always up to date.

We walked to LA Live and saw someone handing out autographs, but we couldn’t figure out who he was.  Pretty sure we saw him stopped several times with his handlers handing him a writing utensil each time.  Never did figure out who he was but it was interesting to watch.

There were some sad things today too.  The man sleeping on the sidewalk with his feet almost in the street.  The man who angrily asked me if I had never seen a white man sitting on a bench before, the young man who loudly dropped F-bombs, complaining about “crackers” and “rednecks” and how he was glad he wasn’t one as he dragged his suitcase up the street.  The three young women who never looked up from their phones while three blind people stood beside them and were asking someone to please tell them where the entrance to the Subway was.

It was a day full of contrasts, from cultures to lifestyles, forms of transportation, and socioeconomic status. It’s a city where you can find just about anyone and anything, or as my husband would say, anything that blows up your skirt.

 

The sun is peeking through the boughs of the palm branches as I gaze through the skylights above the bed.  With no bugs to speak of, the front door is wide open, revealing the table and benches where we had leftovers from a wonderful meal the other night.  The breeze coming from off of the ocean is cool and unobstructed on the 3rd floor patio, not too warm, not too cold.  It’s like a simple little piece of heaven, just for the two of us.

We’re very fortunate and we know it.  While this is certainly not the Ritz or somewhere in an exotic country, our little vacation is a well earned six days of just us.  No meetings, no drill writing, no separate rooms in the same home working away on the next project.  Just having fun together as friends has made this a wonderful experience.

It’s so easy to take your spouse or significant other for granted when both of you are ridiculously busy, doing very worthwhile things for others. but ignoring each other in the process.  The problem is that taking each other for granted means that feelings change – you stop making sure the other person is ok and has things they need or checking to make sure things are going well.  You get up, you work, you come home and prepare a meal and watch some TV or work some more and then you go to bed.  It can seriously hurt the relationship in a very subtle, quiet way.

Before we left on this little trip, my husband said he wanted us to get reacquainted again and we have.  With no one but each other to talk to and interact with, we have to communicate to each other about what we want to do and where we went to go.  We have to compromise about places to eat and things we want to see.  And we take joy in watching each other experience new things.

Maybe this has been made easier to do in a place that is a bit more quiet and everyone here is in vacation mode.  Tomorrow morning we leave for downtown LA to do some more “touristy” things.  Maybe it’s a good way to transition back to the craziness that seems to be our lives most of the time.

I certainly know how fortunate we are. We have worked hard to have some means to be able to have these experiences and we have learned to make each other a priority often enough that we keep the relationship alive.  After nearly 38 years, he is still my best friend and I love doing things with him.  We come from pretty different backgrounds and so it has taken a while for us to warm up to doing some things the other likes to do, but that makes life an adventure.  And life is too short not to have adventures.

Today our adventures consisted of riding a 15 passenger Super RIB.  For you and me that means a really fast boat, low to the water and so fast that the front end of the boat goes up in the air.  We left the water many times and hit it hard, splashing and making everyone, kids and adults alike, squeal and laugh with delight.  Tonight we’ll slow it down by taking a short walk down to the beach to watch the sun set over the ocean. I will be the end of a marvelous day with just us.

 

We spend an awful lot of time in this country talking about people not being able to get along, dividing us into different areas of the country geographically and politically in ways that divide us.  I have always said that stereotypes have some basis in truth, hence the reason they’re a stereotype, but when it comes to Californians being too cool to be kind, this is simply not the case.

Our flight into LA went smoothly and our shuttle driver was right where she said she would be at the right time, so we got on the road right away to Newport Beach.  However, as we got on the freeway, the rush hour in combination with an accident turned what should have been a 45 minute ride into a 2 hour ride instead.  We were the only ones on the shuttle except for one other lady about our age who was dropped off in her neighborhood somewhere between Huntington Beach and Newport Beach.  The driver, got out and stretched her legs and invited us to sit closer to the front so we could talk.  The lady we dropped off went into her house and very shortly after her garage door opened and a few seconds later she walked out with three bottles of sparkling water for us and the driver.  A very simple kindness, but one that was greatly appreciated after a 3 hour flight and a 2 hour drive.

The place where we are staying is a little roof top apartment a couple of blocks from the beach.  You could tell care had been taken to make sure things were clean and that there were little amenities like maps, playing cards, clean white linens and comfy beds.  However, it’s things like the little first aid kit that came in handy when I burned my finger this morning.  Small kindnesses greatly appreciated.

Dinner last night and breakfast this morning were wonderful, not just because of the great food but because of the kind personal service by the wait staff.  Last night I asked for a Diet Coke and as I began to drink it I noticed the glass was broken.  When I called it to the servers attention, he was beyond apologetic, which was not needed – accidents happen.  But then the manager came by, apologized again and then surprised us by taking our wine and beer off of our tab.  Not necessary at all, but so very kind.  All with smiles, asking us our names and having conversations rather than just treating us like another butt in the seat.  When we were asked where we were from, I was expecting the usual response – “Oh” – but instead we got an enthusiastic “Far out!”.  Whether he meant it or not, the effort was appreciated and we got a stereotypical California “far out” out of the conversation to boot.

I get this is tourist season and that being nice is part of the deal, but everyone from the drivers on the trolley to the lady at the store who helped me try on hats have been so kind.  Everyone is smiling, except for that one woman last night.

She was a stunner, with both Doug and I doing a double take as she walked by.  Tall, long legged, tan, with the perfect hair and her fashionable bikini and beach cover up, she was hard to miss.  Absolutely beautiful.  Then we passed her again later while she was on her phone with someone.  Someone she was not happy with.  It’s amazing how ugly someone can become, no matter how physically beautiful they are, when F-bombs are aimed at someone on the phone and exploding every other word at the top of her lungs.  It just amplified the beautiful kindnesses we’ve been experiencing so far on this trip.

And maybe it’s just where we are, but in this sea of cultures and nationalities I’ve seen so far, I’ve only experienced smiles and courtesy between them.  As I travel, this is the way I prefer to see my country, in the small kindnesses we bring to each other and not the hate we see in the media on a daily basis.  So from the midwesterner, thank you to the left coast for your little kindnesses as we relax in your beautiful sunshine.