School daze

Photo by Polly Hooper

One more week and a day...and the FWISD schools are out for the summer (who finishes the year on a Monday? snow days and all that). Jacob is at the end of second grade, and I realize I've been waiting on my porch for him almost every morning for three years. At first Sophie was a puppy, and we waited together--she seemed to know that Jacob would be coming. Now, she's 30 lbs. of enthusiasm and it's too much of an effort to contain her while I wait. Three years ago, Jacob would give me a hug and a kiss before he headed across the street. Now I get what I call a passive hug--he sort of leans into me and allows me to hug him--it exasperates his father, but I understand. He doesn't want to be teased about hugging his grandmother.
I love watching the kids go by--new faces every year, but I am also watching some grow up. I notice in particular one father/daughter combination. She walks sedately beside him, holding his hand, not talking, although he occasionally smiles fondly at her. She's grown so tall since I first noticed them that I wonder if she's not at least in fourth grade, maybe fifth. The Brown boys from behind me are now both in school--Alex spent two years accompanying mom Amy while she walked with Sam, but this year Alex is in kindergarten. Both boys run far ahead of Amy. And Atticus, Jacob's pal from kindergarten runs ahead of his dad, though the other day he sweetly brought my paper up to me (usually Jacob's chore). On project days, parents often carefully carry constructions and posters of various sizes and shapes. I remember when friend Sue lived next door and would help Hunter labor over his projects--I was pleased to be in the audience with Sue when Hunter graduated from fifth grade. And then Jacob had the same kindergarten teacher Hunter had. Today, on the way home, Jacob sometimes still stops to give her a hug.
I remember when Jacob was still a toddler, sitting on the porch with him on my lap staring wistfully at the kids in the afternoon when they got out of school. Once he walked a friend across the street and explained to her that this was where he was going to school. He knew more about it than we did, but because I am a resident grandparent and the after-school care person, he can attend there. It's a good school, and we're lucky he's there.
Over the years I've become friends with the crossing guards--Booker was my great friend, brought my garbage cars up and down for me and called me Granny, even before Jacob was in school. Now we have a pleasant lady who waves at me as I water plants--I do that this time of year as I wait.
I feel like I'm seeing the world pass by me--children and parents of all sizes, shapes, and races, growing, changing, moving on through life while I sit on my porch and watch. I love it..

Teacher let the monkeys out!

 

Lily B. Clayton, "Sweet Lily B."

Photo by Polly Hooper

 

Remember that old ditty we used to sing as kids? "School's out, school's out/Teacher let the monkeys out!" I remember it was the most exiting day, so I was surprised that Jacob didn't seem to think it was out of the ordinary. As I've said he attends the public elementary school across the street from my house, a wonderful, historic building where one kindergarten classroom even has a fishpond and a mural of fairy tale figures. And he loves it. He told me yesterday he wasn't excited because he'd like first grade so much. Thank you, Sara Filarowicz, for being a teacher who made him love school.

I on the other hand was excited that school is out--no more homework for two months, late afternoon naps for me, maybe more work done.

Jacob will go to Clayton Yes!, an independent summer program housed at the school. His mom will take him and pick him up, but I hope they'll stop often for a visit.

Meantime it must have hit me this afternoon. I'd had an hour nap before I went to get him, but when Jacob and his mom left at four, headed for a pool party, I went back to bed and slept soundly for another hour, woke up feeling loggy and dumb. Took me a while to realize that I was finally wide awake and hungry.

Probably I'll be really glad when school starts again in August.

Come visit my neighborhood

Lily B. Clayton Elementary School

across the street from my house

Picture by Polly Hooper

Several years ago, my younger son who lives in a big house in a suburb north of Dallas, said to me, “I want to live in a neighborhood like you do.” I do live in a neighborhood, with all that implies, the kind Mr. Rogers meant when he asked, “Won’t you be my neighbor?” The houses are old (mine was built in 1922) and probably the red brick bungalow dominates, but we have two-story houses and even a McMansion or two with zero lot line (working to stop that trend); our houses also come in tan brick, stucco, painted brick, some with arched windows and vaulted ceilings, others with tall ceilings and crown molding.. But they all have charm. We always hope add-ons will be done tastefully to fit in with the décor; similarly, we hope each home owner will maintain his or her property to the level of the neighborhood.

From my front porch

Tall trees arch over our streets, forming a canopy that seems to shelter us. When I sit on my front porch, I can block out traffic and pretend I’m in a tree house, surrounded by oaks, crape myrtle, pecan, the great elm in front of my house (which is very old and worries me every time we have a storm). And I can listen to a railroad train a couple of blocks away—many would complain about that but I love trains and find the sound comforting.

We have an active, even pro-active neighborhood association with monthly meetings and a monthly neighborhood newsletter. Recently a national chain has started producing a slick magazine for the neighborhood, but I’m prejudiced—I like our traditional newsletter (maybe because I’m about to become editor). Our neighborhood association deals with the issues of buildings that don’t fit into the neighborhood “style,” from an office complex on the edge of the neighborhood to contemporary houses built in the middle, or the narrowing of the main road that runs through the neighborhood, a commuter route for many in our city, and the zoo, which is on the edge of our neighborhood. It sponsors everything from Easter parades and ice cream socials to Christmas gift baskets for shut-ins and the elderly. We also have a busy email list where people post about lost dogs and cats and stray dogs seen wandering. Neighbors looking after neighbors.

I live across the street from an elementary school, the building so old and beautiful that it’s on one or the other register of historic places, with its art deco touches and a goldfish pond in one of the basement kindergarten rooms. That school anchors the neighborhood and is the focus for many activities. I am lucky that grandson Jacob goes to school there. Every day I walk across the street to get him, and we spend our afternoons together doing homework.

My house in the snow

Photo by Susan Halbower

It’s the kind of neighborhood where a small group gathers each Tuesday night at the local café for supper. I love it for the camaraderie and because Tuesday night is meatloaf night.  A few years ago, when we had a heavy, wet snow, my neighbor across the street sent her teenage son to shovel my walk. When I tried to pay him, he said, “Oh, no, thank you. This is what neighbors do for each other.”

Last night my grandson and his playmates “discovered” a hole in my fence where my dog could escape. One of the little boys’ fathers came promptly to fix it, saying the boys hadn’t just discovered the hole—they made it and then tried to block it when they (probably Jacob) realized that Sophie might get away.

So, thank you Berkeley and Margaret Johnson and son Atticus and Jason Brown who mended the fence and Mary Dulle who encouraged me to go to dinner (and made me newsletter editor) and the Barrs and the Harrals and Lyn and others who join us on Tuesday night. And thank you to Jay and Susan, Greg and Jaimie, terrific neighbors who kind of watch after me. I can’t think of a better place to live.

My Kelly O’Connell Mysteries are set in a neighborhood, but it is not Berkeley—it’s Fairmount, which is just adjacent to us. But in writing of that neighborhood and the community spirit, I very much had Berkeley in mind. The houses in Fairmount are a bit older, with lots of Craftsman homes, and the streets are wonderful and wide, like they used to make them. But Fairmount and Berkeley share many characteristics.

Nope, I don’t want to live in a development or a high-rise or a condo in assisted living. When people ask if I’m considering selling, I say, “No. Not until my kids make me.”

Dressing up on a stormy weekend

There must have been some kind of bug in the air this past weekend. All my kids were in costumes. The top picture is youngest daughter Jordan and her husband, Christian, who reverted to the ‘80s—or was that the ‘70s?—complete with wigs. They report they had a blast at the annual Lily B. Clayton PTA Auction, which raises money for extras at the school, such as a laptop lab.

And below are my other three, two with spouses, one member of the extended family and my oldest grandchild. Aren’t teenagers wonderful? The look on her face clearly says, “I don’t know these people, don’t know why I’m with them, don’t know why I’m dressed like them.” It was probably about 6:30 a.m. Sunday at Fair Park in Dallas, and the temperature, so they tell me, was 38 and the wind at 45 mph. The Rock ‘n Roll half marathon began at seven, and they all finished it, though I’ve had no word on times. Megan, my oldest daughter who was responsible for the matching pajamas, ran with my granddaughter, Maddie, and says they mostly ran but walked a little—due to Megan’s knee and Maddie’s ankle. Maddie is a superb athlete and star basketball player—lives and breathes the game, though she’s no slouch on the soccer field either. I remember not too many years ago going to either a basketball or volleyball game when most of the girls stood and watched the ball without moving. She’s grown up in a lot of ways, and I am so proud of her. And love her sense of humor—you can see the smile in her eyes in this picture.

Meantime I was snug in my bed—well, sort of. There was this six-year-old who kept kicking me. A clap of loud thunder followed by lightning about eleven Saturday night sent him running to tell me it was time for me to go to bed and he was sleeping in my bed, not his. I regaled him with stories about how much I loved storms on Lake Michigan when I was his age, and his astounded reply was “Why?”

Texas has taught me to be respectful of storms, but as a kid I did love them. We had a summer cottage at the foot of Lake Michigan, high on a dune two long staircases above the beach, and we could watch storms roll down the lake from the north, with dark clouds, roaring winds, whitecaps crashing on the beach, and torrential rains. Snug in the cottage, I thought it was thrilling. I’d still like storms if someone could assure me there would be no tornado and no serious damage, but I’ve seen too many pictures of wind damage in Texas. Jacob and I discussed where to go if there was a tornado, and I asked, “You would remember the dog, wouldn’t you?”

Sophie, the Bordoodle, was unfazed by the storm, though I have had dogs who were terrified. Scooby, the Aussie I lost last summer, was so frightened when I first got him that I tried giving him tranquilizers. Trouble was by the time I realized a storm was coming and gave him the pill, it was too late. It took hours for the pill to kick in, and the storm had passed but the dog was a zombie by then.

I remember my mom telling me that thunder was the gods rolling bowling balls around in heaven. Mom was a good Christian, but she mixed a little Greek mythology in and had many gods up there bowling. I found the idea comforting. I’ll try it on Jacob, though I know he’d correct me and tell me there is only one God.