Under Pressure

My niece, Mary, is closing in on her first year of teaching. Her group of 1st graders has been quite the handful. Just yesterday, her principal acknowledged just how tough her group is. He told her that other teachers have seen her class in the cafeteria and just shake their heads, wondering how the first-year teacher is handling such a tough group.

Fortunately, Mary has an aunt and a mother who have a great deal of classroom experience. We both know that just coming home and talking through the problems of the day is helpful. We've both been there, and we know advice isn't always what's needed. Sometimes you need to just talk it out. 

Even so, it's been a stressful year. Yesterday, thanks to her new Oura Ring, Mary was able to show me how stressful her days can be. 

"Do you see how the graph shoots up here around noon? That shows my stress level increasing, " she said.

"What happens then?"

"So, that's when I pick them up from specials, and all I'm doing is freaking out, wondering what kind of shit show the afternoon is going to be," she laughed.

It's great that she's laughing. Every teacher knows the first year is one of the hardest. Mary knows that figuring out your own classroom management isn't learned in school. It comes with practice. She knows every year will get better; she also knows she's had a lot of wonderful moments teaching this year, mixed in with all the stress.

Unbelievable

My working self always saw Sunday afternoon as the start of getting ready for the workweek. Somewhere around 4 pm, I would switch from weekend mode to work mode. All of my friends recognized the pattern. If we were out of town for the weekend, they knew I would start getting antsy to head home as soon as noontime was in sight.

Well, those days ended with retirement. I'm still a gal who likes to get in bed early, but I no longer have to worry about last-minute grading, food prep, or figuring out what to wear.

Yesterday, my younger friend, Julie, and I went out for a late afternoon stroll. Since our walk took us right by a neighborhood tavern, we decided to pop in for a beer to reward ourselves for getting out and getting moving. 

"Can you believe it's been a year since I gave my official notice of retirement?' I asked, "I mean, I still can't believe it!"

Julie laughed, "I don't know about that, all I know is I can't believe I got you to have a beer at 5 on a Sunday afternoon."

Cheeseburger in Paradise

Before two of my siblings and I drove down memory lane to our childhood home, we had gone to lunch. Actually, the day started at the funeral of our older cousin, and after that we went to lunch. Walking out of the chapel, we realized that none of us really knew anyone else there, other than my cousin's immediate family. It was a group decision to skip the after-funeral gathering and grab lunch on our own. My sister, Jeen, suggested a good ol' dive bar called Swallow at the Hollow. It was on the other side of Baltimore City, but the 20-minute drive seemed worth it just to go to a place we had all heard about, just a few blocks from our first childhood home.

I suppose The Hollow wasn't always a dive bar. I'm sure when it first opened back in 1947, it was quite grand, just like the neighborhood it served. It was also the neighborhood where my dad grew up, a section of Baltimore known as Govans. His childhood home and all the streets that made up the settings for his own stories were a short walk away.

Like most dive bars, it wasn't that big. Walking in the door, the bar stretched the length of the room on the right. To the left were a few high-top tables. On the other side of the room were five or six tables. We grabbed a table on the "restaurant" side.

"I used to go to a dive bar with a friend and her dad- it was someplace he liked down on Bel Air Rd. They had the best burgers, " I announced, "that's what I'm getting."

It didn't take long before we'd all decided. There would be two burgers, one BLT, and a beer for each of us.

"I came in here with Dad one time," Mark started.

I laughed, "Dad told me about having his first martini here when he was younger. It was so strong, he couldn't talk after."

Over the next hour, we enjoyed great beer, fantastic food,  and memories galore. On the way out, we noticed a black and white photo of a larger group of young guys at the bar. It was taken in 1954, but my dad was nowhere to be found in the crowd.

It was a perfect lunch with my siblings. The only thing missing was my dad. He would have loved to be there.

Family Affair

"I know there's a stream at the end of the block. Mom would take us down there," I started, "it was down there that I swallowed a penny. What kind of mother lets her kid put a penny on their tongue?"

My sister laughed, "What kind of kid puts a penny on their tongue?"

"I was four. What did I know?"

My brother spoke up from the back seat, "Hey, that's the house where the old lady with all the cats lived!"

"And that's the Hendricks' house!" I yelled.

The three of us were driving down Hollen Rd. in Baltimore, looking for the house we lived in back in the late 1960s. I guess it was the place where all of us first lived together, along with our brother Joe, who was absent from this adventure.

Oldest brother, Mark, had already pointed out where he used to wait for the school bus. "There was a lady who lived there, and she would always throw nickels in her yard, so all the kids were always running around her yard looking for nickels."

Jeen slowed the car down once as we neared the Hendricks' house. "The big cedar trees are gone, " Mark noted.

I remember the trees well. My first friend, Frances, lived in that house, and the enormous branches were perfect climbing height for 4 and 5-year-olds. They also had a couple of rows of grape vines in the backyard. Frances' yard was the best.

Our house was down a bit on the left. 

"Mom's going to want to know if the bushes are still growing in the back," Mark said. 

Jeen and Mark were busy looking. I was busy remembering the afternoon the Daddy-Long Legs crawled on me and brought me to tears.

The bushes were gone, and before long, we were back on the road and on our way, content with our quick drive through our family history.

Cat Nap

My former cat, Scout, had an interesting way of waking me up every morning. He would hop on the dresser and use his paw to push whatever was around to the floor. It usually only took two or three things crashing onto the parquet floor to wake me from my slumber.

My current cats are content to let me sleep away the morning...to a certain point. When I was still working, my alarm went off at 5:00 AM each weekday. With early morning hours like that, five days a week, a luxurious late Saturday sleep still only meant waking up at about 7:00 AM. Even in this first year of retirement, I'm usually up no later than 7:30.

This morning, I woke to a cat jumping on my back, followed by a hissy little cat spat. I knew it had to be late. It was just past 8:30 AM. Wow, I haven't slept that late in quite some time. 

At least now I know when the feline patience wears out.

Fox on the Run

I was surprised by a quick flash of orange and black fur running through the backyard.  It's been a while since I've seen a fox around my house, but even when they've been more frequent, I'm always taken aback when I see one. That was this morning, and I had pretty much forgotten about the quick encounter until this afternoon, when I watched two sleeping cats bolt up and to attention.

I was on the phone at the time, so I couldn't figure out what all the commotion was about. When I finally moved over toward the back window, I got a full view of a beautiful fox standing on my back patio. She was beautiful with a full, rich coat of fur. Older cat Edgar stood with his ears at full perk, trying to assess the situation. Younger cat Alice must have sensed danger-she often does-because she scurried off like a mouse being chased by a cat without a sound.

I watched as the fox turned toward me and stared. And then just like that, she strolled off to the cover of a clump of overgrown bushes in the middle of the back courtyard. Maybe I'll see her again tomorrow, if not, I'll keep looking and listening...and hoping there may be some kits to see in the future.

Good Morning Baltimore

My dad was the king of storytelling, especially when it came to his old neighborhood and his family. Anything I know about his family and his ancestors' immigration from Ireland and Scotland to Baltimore is because of the stories that he's told. His stories have become my own.

Growing up, there was a portrait of a stern, gray-haired woman that hung on the wall in our living room. She had the kind of eyes that followed you around the room. Honestly, I think we were all. a wee bit scared of the person we called the old woman. These days, she leans against the wall in my mom's basement. The basement is scary enough for me, simply because I feel like if my dad was going to pay a visit from the beyond, it would be in the basement. Whenever I find myself down there, I prepare myself for a ghostly run-in. I haven't seen him yet, but that doesn't stop me from taking a breath when I see that old portrait leaning up against the cinderblock wall.

Fortunately, I've saved many of the emails my dad sent about his family history. He was into his own genealogy way before Ancestry.com arrived on the scene. Most of his research was conducted through family interviews and a collection of pictures passed down through the family. Today I came across some information about that scary old woman. I remembered the stories, but had never figured out her real relation to me.

That old woman is actually my second-great-grandmother, Bessie Kearney Fisher.  She was born in 1835 in the county of Kildare, Ireland. By the time she was 21 years old, she was married and living in Baltimore, MD. He didn't have much information about when she arrived, but his mother told him that when she sailed to the US, her vessel was becalmed in the middle of the ocean. For about two weeks, there was nothing to eat but oranges. By the time she finally made it to Baltimore, she knew one thing- she never wanted to see another orange.

I've let my own Ancestry subscription lapse recently. After finding my dad's old emails and family newsletters, I think it's time to pick that subscription back up so I can continue where he left off.