AUTHORITY

THEME: AUTHORITY
He who establishes his argument by noise and command shows that his reason is weak.
~Michel de Montaigne

ROOM MOTHER DAZE

ELLIE SEARL

When Brett entered first grade this past year, his mom Katie not only signed up to be Art Master for the second time, she also volunteered to be the class Room Mother.  She'd teach his class about famous artists, plan parties, organize treats, and become friends with the other mothers. 

"And," she said, "This will give me solid foothold in the workings of the school."

"Aren't you doing enough already?"  I asked.

"Mom – It's okay," Katie said.  "Being a Room Mother is the best way to stay on top of things.  It'll be fun."

Parent-Teacher Open House was the only September event that needed Room Mothering, so it wasn't until October at the Halloween party that Katie first encountered the Mighty Moms lurking behind the cubby buckets.  MORE . . .

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THE FINE ART OF EAVESDROPPING

CAROLYN B HEALY

Ask any writer where their material comes from and the honest ones will tell you it’s from a lifetime of eavesdropping. Sitting in a coffee shop you can land like a paratrooper in the middle of the life of a stranger and find out more than you know about your best friend. Whatever you hear yourself, you have on good authority, I figure.

Sometimes you get only hints and have to construct the story yourself. Like the time I sat near an apparently former priest and an older woman breakfasting together. I got an earful about “that business” that caused him so much trouble in recent years in the church. I pegged her as a former parishioner, based on the delicate balance between devotion and flirtatiousness that ran between them.  MORE . . .

CHEAP THRILLS

THEME: CHEAP THRILLS
The only thrill worthwhile is the one that comes from making something out of yourself.
~ William Feather

HITTING MY POLITICAL BOTTOM
CAROLYN B HEALY

Hello. My name is Carolyn and I am a recovering political arguer. To qualify as recovering, I had to prepare a searching and fearless inventory of my p.a. past. Let me share the highlights:

At age 8, I canvassed the neighborhood with my mother for the Republican candidate for mayor of Chicago. His name was Bob Merriam. He was an author and reformer, a war veteran with a Bronze Star. The Democratic candidate, slated for the first time, was Richard J. Daley the Original. It is said that Merriam actually had a chance. Imagine what Chicago might be like by now if he had won. That day, people were either polite or not at home, and I got ice cream on the way back. I rather enjoyed it. MORE . . . 

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HOME ON THE RAILS
ELLIE SEARL

The Promise. "We'll take you through the Heart of the West! Eight states and across the mighty Mississippi—past deserts and mountains, missions and pueblos, ranches and wheat fields. Carving through curving canyon passages only a few feet wider than the train itself. You'll see spectacular landscapes and pristine vistas. You'll be mesmerized by this land's beauty and allure."

The Adventure. Los Angeles to Chicago on the Southwest Chief, the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railway. Over two thousand miles of the Old West along the Santa Fe Trail: California, Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Iowa, and Illinois. Ed and I would leave Fullerton, CA, early on a mid-July Monday evening and arrive in Chicago, IL, Wednesday afternoon. Two pleasant, relaxing days riding the rails, soaking in the wonder, beauty, and mystery of the Old West.  MORE . . .

RUMORS

THEME: RUMORS
Rumors generally grow deformed as they travel. ~ Edward Counsel

     

RUMORS OF ALICE SPRINGS
CAROLYN B HEALY

We arrived in Alice Springs on a jet plane. The airport was a modest affair with one building and a few luggage carts. We could barely breathe in the heat as we walked from the terminal to our bus. On the way to the hotel, our tour guide Mark lavished praise on us, for being the kind of travelers who would brave the Outback, not just luxuriate in the coastal cities of Australia.

All we could see outside the window was red sandy soil and scrub brush, and the occasional scruffy tree. The sky loomed large above us. It was bright blue, speckled with filmy clouds, and vast.

All we could think was the hotel must have air conditioning, right?

We reached the outskirts of town, expecting a dirt track of a frontier town, a simple crossroads in the Outback. What we saw instead was KFC, McDonalds, Target, T-shirt shops, and two indoor malls with food courts. What? It looked like a mini-U.S. MORE . . . 

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TARNISHED TIARAS
ELLIE SEARL

 Ah, what fools we were, Ed and I, when raising our daughter Katie.  We can hear them whispering.  "Ellie and Ed didn't give Katie what every little girl should have - that all-important, rise-to-stardom opportunity."  And they’re right.  We didn't.  Shame on us. 

Because of our neglect, Katie missed out.  So determined to raise our child on good old-fashioned values, we neglected to provide that one life experience that would have sent Katie straight to fame. Little girl beauty pageants.  How could we have been so remiss? MORE . . .

FIGHTS

THEME: FIGHTS
It's not the size of the dog in the fight; it's the size of the fight in the dog.
~ Mark Twain

SWITCHING CHANNELS
ELLIE SEARL

Sometimes my husband speaks from brain quarks.  The other day, as we drove past the hideous concrete landscape of strip malls, auto dealerships, and fast food restaurants, Ed said something unintelligible to me in a nasally, Mr. Peavey voice.  I thought he was referring to the ugliness.

 “Huh?” 

I expected him to say something funny about obese alley – those side-by-side hip packers:  Taco Bell, McDonald’s, and Burger King.

"I'm channeling Harrison Ford," he said.

I took a beat to reconnoiter.  "Yeah, right,” I said.  “Harrison Ford.  A dweeb."  MORE . . . 

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UNFINISHED BUSINESS
CAROLYN B HEALY

As soon as we landed in Christchurch, New Zealand our group of 44 piled into a luxury bus equipped with soft seats in a flashy fabric and a bathroom. We met our driver Malcolm, a strapping blonde gent who over the next week was to narrate our way across his country. You could quickly see that Malcolm was not a chatterbox, but one of those folks who was worth listening to when he spoke.

  It was January 22, 2011. He loaded our bags and we headed out of the airport on the exit lane. As he approached the traffic circle that would lead us to town, there was a loud clunk and we stopped dead. He shifted, and tried and this and that, but there we sat.  His jaw twitched, he traded a couple of quiet comments with Mark, our cheerful guide, and got on the phone. MORE . . . 

PAYING ATTENTION

THEME:  PAYING ATTENTION
I think the one lesson I have learned is that there is no substitute for paying attention.

~ Diane Sawyer

HEARING THE CHANT

CAROLYN B HEALY

It was Saturday, February 4, 2011. The Auckland Hop On Hop Off bus was transporting us through our last full day in New Zealand. We had already seen the grass-covered cone of an extinct volcano that sits above the city. I snapped a photo of my daughter peering into the top, while we tried to imagine what it had looked like 60,000 years ago when it was spewing lava. We couldn’t.

We’d also passed a suburban park with its own sheep, chomping grass within feet of the busy road. There are 4,000,000 people in New Zealand and 45,000,000 sheep. After a few days it seemed normal to see them anywhere.

We climbed off at the museum which sits above the city in a huge park. We looked down on a cricket match which we couldn’t understand and climbed the steps to the museum which we figured we could. We’d heard about the Maori show there, an authentic depiction of the music and practices of the indigenous people of New Zealand.

We were ushered into an elaborately carved meeting house, asked to remain silent for a welcoming ceremony, and then guided through a series of songs, games and dances. There was a cast of eight, 4 women and 4 men, dressed in traditional garments of muted patterns and ornamental beads. The men wore elaborate loincloths, the women grass skirts. The men held guitars, the women tucked poi balls at the waist. The oldest and most serious member of the troupe narrated. MORE . . .

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SPOT ON

ELLIE SEARL
Drawings and Spot's Story by Clinton Searl

My mother and father-in-law, Mary and Clint Searl, are 94 and 95 years old. They are in such good shape - body, mind, and soul - they could put most teenagers to shame. They'd probably tell you they're getting too old for this or too tired for that, but they have spunk and spirit and drive and a boatload of positive energy – the kind that adds spark to life and makes children giggle.


They tell the stories of their lives, most of which they've told many times, but which I never tire of hearing. Mom, the daughter of Austro-Hungarian parents and the eldest of ten children, growing up on a New Jersey farm. Dad, one of five children, growing up in a New Jersey mill town. They tell their stories, and I ask questions to stretch the details. MORE . . .

 Photograph by Natalie Searl

ENDINGS

THEME: ENDINGS
If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story. ~ Orson Wells

  

MY TV HALL OF FAME

Carolyn B Healy

I have friends who claim that they do not watch TV. They are too high-minded to engage with the sludge of popular media. “I never turn it on,” they declare, patting themselves on the back. Liars. Lure them into a conversation and they turn out to be surprisingly well-informed about the latest plot twists in Brothers and Sisters or The Good Wife.

Me, I make no such claims. I’m still making up for lost time because I spent several of my formative years with no TV. In fact, I have created a personal TV Show Hall of Fame. Let me tell you about my top ten. MORE . . .

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THE ESSENTIALS
Ellie Searl
 

It’s nearing the New Year - time to reconnoiter - time to think about how I’ve lived my life and see if my activities stand up to snuff. What unpleasantness could have been avoided if I’d been a better person? I don’t want to go into 2011 continuing behaviors that screech along the chalkboard.

Usually end-of-year self-scrutinizing comes in the guise of New Year’s Resolutions. However, this year I’ve decided to think of my life in terms of the Seven Deadly Sins. If I’ve fallen into the mire of sin, I'll cleanse my soul and waltz into 2011 with angelic purity.

Note: The sins aren't in the order I found them on the Internet. I alphabetized them. Makes me feel organized.  MORE . . .

BOUNCING BACK

THEME: BOUNCING BACK
A hard fall means a high bounce . . . if you're made of the right material. ~Unknown

  

     

S.M.A.R.T.

by Ellie Searl

I received my Master's Degree in Guidance and Counseling in 1978 from Youngstown State University. I've never been particularly proud of that - Youngstown not the garden spot of the universe, and the local university not the finest example of scholastic institutions. When a university names its football team The Penguins, something's off kilter. Penguins can't fly, and they can't run. They flap. Football flappers? Not a good image.


Right from the start, I worried about the educational quality of that town. Higher learning I didn't expect. However, Youngstown State was the only school in the vicinity that offered a postgraduate degree in counseling, so I enrolled there a few months after Ed, Katie, and I settled into our apartment and Ed began his ministry at the First Unitarian Church.

I wasn't particularly optimistic for lower learning, either, but I hoped Katie's education wouldn't be a huge disappointment. We had moved from Fayetteville, New York, a suburb of Syracuse, where Katie had attended an excellent school.

While I studied Carl Rogers' Client Centered Therapy and role-played I-messages with fellow students at the university, Katie became ensconced in fourth grade at Harding Elementary School. Her teacher, Miss Miller, was a single woman who lived with her ailing mother, and who, according to Katie, couldn't get married until her mother died.   MORE . . .

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THE SPOT YOU STAND ON
by Carolyn B Healy

I sat in my fourth grade art class, flummoxed. I stared at the large piece of art paper, my 48 crayons standing ready. The assignment: Draw a picture of your dad for Fathers’ Day.


It was 1956 and I was the only kid in the class who had a problem with this. I approached the teacher, careful to keep my voice low.

“Mrs. Albright,” I said, “My father died.”

“Oh, well then,” she replied, “An uncle? Your grandfather?”

I shook my head.

“Do you want to just do a picture of your mother instead?”

Good. Clarity. Permission to do the only logical thing. I turned out a very nice giant head of my mother in her pearl earrings which she rarely wore, but which gave a bit of glamour to my picture. As I glanced at my classmates’ pictures, I had that familiar outsider feeling, my nose pressed to the glass of their normal families. MORE . . .

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