I love my name. Honestly, I don’t think my parents could have picked a better name. I look at people who hate their names for whatever reason, and I just can’t relate.
According to several baby name generators, Valerie means “strong” (though I grew up with my parents telling me that it meant “leader”). It was a Roman family name, derived from the Latin “valere.” It’s current form most closely matches a French form of an early Christian name. It peaked in popularity between in the US in 1959 and 1985 (the later thanks to Valerie Bertenelli). Since I was born in 1976, I grew up knowing very few Valeries, though I currently have a very dear friend who is also named Valerie. (And sorry for all the geeky origin information. I love that stuff!)
I think it is natural for names to develop nicknames. I think of all the goofy things I call the kiddos at school, and most of those are not derivatives of their names. It’s fun to play with a name. But, a name is a very personal thing, and not everyone is allowed to play with a name. But, people don’t seem to understand this. I remember when I waitressed, and I would introduce myself to my tables as “Valerie,” and they would immediately respond back with, “Hey, Val, can you get me X, Y, and Z?” It would not make me happy.
Now, when people ask, “Do you prefer Valerie or Val?” I’ll often let them call me whatever they want to call me. I usually say, “Thank you for asking me. My close friends and family call me Val, so when we get to that point, feel free to call me Val.” Or, if I’m introduced as Val, that’s a completely different situation.
Now, with kids I have always been Miss Val. I think there’s something personable, approachable, etc. with having them call me Miss Val. And I’ve just been Miss Val since high school when I taught Sunday School to the little ones. But, I found out yesterday that I cannot be Miss Val at the new school. I have to be Ms. LastName. After getting over the initial shock and disappointment, I thought, “OH! Maybe I can actually be Valerie here.”
And then the owner called me Val. Guess not. Guess I’ll always be Val. I didn’t ever want to grow up anyways!
When I was 15, I was working at the local grocery store to earn a little cash. I really didn’t care for that job much. So, when I saw a sign in the window of a newish downtown restaurant (a second location of a local favorite) for a waitress, I went in to apply. The owner gave me an application, which I filled out and handed back to her. I had no waitressing experience, and she was hard on me in my interview–wanting to know why she should take the chance on me without any experience. I remember telling her that I learned quickly and tried hard. I think she pegged me as a smarty pants, and said that learning in a restaurant is different than learning in the classroom. But, she gave me the chance. I worked for her restaurant, and the original restaurant for many years.
Several months after I started, she told me that she’d decided to hire me before ever interviewing me, which is why she felt so comfortable giving me a hard time. See, one of the questions on the application was, “Give two words that best describe you.” I can’t remember the second one, but I know that the first one was “vivacious.” She didn’t know what that word meant and had to go look it up in the dictionary. And she liked what she found. She told me that if I knew myself well enough to describe myself that specifically that I was someone she wanted working for her.
Towards the end of my interview last week, the owner/headmaster of the school looked at me and said, “I like you. You’re genuine and vivacious. You’re someone I want on my team.” And I had to smile. A lot of things have changed about me in the 19 years since I interviewed for that waitress job. But the core me? The me that I apparently know so well? She hasn’t changed so much. She’s still that vivacious girl she was at 15. And not only does she see it, but others do too.
That was actually the moment I knew I’d take the job. It was also the start of them offering it. But, as soon as she said the word vivacious, I knew I’d be working at that school.
So, if you’ve looked around this site, you may have guessed that I like ladybugs. My mom would say, “Valerie, you have a ladybug problem.” She likes to say that when I own too much of something. When she helped me pack up my apartment last summer, she informed I had a sheet problem, a towel problem, and definitely a candle problem. But, with the ladybugs, I can shoot back, “Mom, part of this is your fault!” since she and dad gave me many ladybug themed gifts for Christmas.
I’ve loved ladybugs for a good part of my adult life, and I’ve been collecting them all along. But, this past school year, as I worked as a preschool teacher and after school program director, my love of ladybugs hit a new high. I found a series of children’s books about a delightful little girl, Lulu, who is a superhero–Ladybug Girl. By the time I was introduced to Ladybug Girl, there were already three books: Ladybug Girl, Ladybug Girl and Bumblebee Boy, and Ladybug Girl Dresses Up, with the promise of the highly anticipated Ladybug Girl at the Beach coming in May.
I knew nothing about the Ladybug Girl books when I picked up the first book at Lakeshore in February, while I was picking up supplies for my Winter Olympics camp. But, from the moment I first read that book to my kiddos, I over-identified with little Lulu. See, Lulu has fears, but when she is Ladybug Girl, she can “do anything,” and she conquers those fears. The kids, all of my kids–from preschool to upper school–loved those books. Every time I bought a new one, they couldn’t wait to hear it. And whenever I asked what they wanted to read, 99% of the time they asked for a Ladybug Girl book.
When Spirit Week came in March, I decided that on Character Day, I had to dress up as Ladybug Girl. I spent weeks searching the Internet for all of the pieces I would need: wings, antennae, tutu, shoes (you should totally check out the link to the shoes; they were priceless!), etc. The tutu turned out to be problematic, and just about when I decided I would make it myself, a dance store owner suggested I buy a white tutu and fabric spray paint it red. And so I did. But, that was almost a crisis. I ran out of paint and couldn’t find more of the right color. And, well, let’s just say that as it was it looked like the Bride of Chucky had attacked the tutu. I finally tracked down another can of the paint, and all was saved, but it was scary for a minute.
Character Day came, and my boss joined me in the fun as Bumblebee Boy. We were quite the pair! Ever since that day, though, I have been Ladybug Girl. The kids would call me Ladybug Girl; the other teachers would call me Ladybug Girl. Little ladybug gifties were anonymously appearing in my staff box. It was fun. And quite frankly, I needed something whimsical and fun. Life was not easy at my job the last couple of months. The school board had to make the very difficult decision to close the school. The economy had just hit our little community too hard. We could not go on. I found great comfort in my Ladybug Girl persona those last few months. And whenever I’d get down and it would start to show, my boss would say, “But you’re Ladybug Girl! You can do anything!”
I was job hunting, but there just didn’t seem to be much out there. But, a few weeks ago, I sent out eight resumes at once–the most I’d sent during my five and a half months of searching. And at least two of them seemed to be very good fits. I thought that I’d be very surprised if I didn’t hear back from someone from that batch.
Then the last week of school came, and I still hadn’t heard anything. I was facing unemployment. On Tuesday afternoon, my Blackberry buzzed with a new email, and it was from my job-hunting email address. It wasn’t a “This email cannot be delivered notice!” It was an actual email! Someone wanted to meet with me! It was one of those eight. A Montessori school, not very far from where I was currently working, was looking for an office assistant and after school coordinator. It did seem like a good fit. They wanted to meet with me on Thursday or Friday morning of that week.
Unfortunately, those were the last two days of our school year. On Thursday I had my class party with my preschoolers, and on Friday was our end-of-the-year assembly. I couldn’t miss either. I called and explained the situation, and they were very understanding. We scheduled my interview for Tuesday.
I almost immediately knew what clothes I would wear–black dress pants, black sleeveless shell, and my white and black eyelet jacket. But, then I needed to accessorize. I have some fantastic jewelry, thanks to my amazing cousin who is a gifted and generous designer. I kept coming back to my red jewelry (a pendant necklace, three bracelets, and earrings). And my co-teacher gave me a fabulous big red purse as an end-of-the-year gift. I was feeling led towards red. Yes, I would go with red.
As I was laying everything out the night before, I started considering shoe options. My co-teacher had given me a fun pair of red flats late in the year. She had bought them for herself, but never wore them because they just didn’t fit right. When she told her kids, they said she should give them to me because, “Ladybug Girl needed red shoes.” So, she brought them in for me, and they fit perfectly. But, I just didn’t know about wearing red shoes to an interview. I knew it was at a school. I also knew that I would never consider it if I was interviewing at a high rise downtown, but I just didn’t know. So, I did what any smart girl would do. I did a poll on Facebook. The vote was unanimous–red shoes.
So, Tuesday morning I got ready for my interview. As I took one last look in the mirror before stepping out the door I thought, “Wow, I look like Ladybug Girl all grown up.” And off I went.
The interview went swimmingly. Honestly, it couldn’t possibly have gone better. We all felt very comfortable with each other from the very beginning. They shared very honestly some of the issues they were dealing with at the school, and I shared some of the situations I had dealt with the last several months at my previous school. It felt like a very good fit, for all five of us who met. And before I left the school that day (an hour and a half after I arrived), I had a job offer.
(Now, when I told that to my career counselor the next day, she said that just doesn’t happen right now.)
I ran by the mall to pick up thank you notes, since I’d forgotten mine at home. Fortunately, Papyrus had the exact same notes I had planned to use–Thank you notes with a little ladybug right in the middle. I wrote the notes, and got them in the mail immediately. I had three of my references write letters of recommendations (which they did amazingly quickly, because they are amazing), and on Thursday afternoon I heard from the head of school–I absolutely had the job.
Ladybug Girl said, “Yes!”
This website is one of my great loves—the combination of so many of my “things:” writing, crafting, and just plain life. But, it has gotten the shaft recently. Life has gotten in the way…not just of this website, but of my writing and crafting in general. Two moves (plus helping my parents with two moves) since June, starting a new job, and trying to finish up some school work, and crafting of all types goes to the wayside, much to my dismay.
I’m currently sitting on a train back home from Michigan, after visiting my family for Thanksgiving. The train gives you a lot of time to think. I’ve been crocheting and listening to an audio book for school, but decided to take a break and write for a bit, while life wasn’t getting in the way.
It is in these quiet moments that I can reflect on the good in the fullness of my life. I have a job that I love, a family that I adore, and friends that stand by me even after they’ve moved way too many boxes of books up a flight of rickety stairs.
I was blessed to have a true Thanksgiving break. It was one that reminded me that a break is good…that it is okay to go to bed before everyone else, then wake up before everyone else and enjoy a pot of tea…that there is joy in discovering a grandfather clock for the first time and tick-tocking along with it…that flying down a slide never gets old…that hearing your two-year-old nephew call you “Th-V” is the best sound in the world.
I know that some people don’t enjoy going back to their roots, but I find such joy and refreshment in hanging out with my family. I treasure those moments, and yes, probably even more so now that there’s a little one in the midst. There’s something about seeing the joy on his face when he just doesn’t know what to check out next in the preschool room at Hands On—when he runs back and forth between tasks, dropping his fireman hat and coat in the middle of the floor, only to want it back again in 30 seconds. To experience life like that again—it’s good to have these reminders.
And seeing my brother and sister-in-law as parents? Pure joy. I know it’s not always easy for them; I can see that. But, they’re doing an amazing job. They exhibit such patience with a very independent Cooper, clearly trying so hard to not stifle his spirit while he explores the world, but also molding him into the person he will become.
Then there’s Ja-Ja (Uncle Jon). He’s such a fun Uncle. He really is a jungle gym, and Cooper adores him. Uncle Jon was only able to be with us for Thanksgiving Day, then he had go back to Chicago to coach basketball games. But, Cooper loves his Ja-Ja, and he kept asking for him after he left.
I think my parents were made to be grandparents. They love and spoil and care and support and all the wonderful things grandparents can do. I am truly blessed to be in the family I am in. And I’m glad I had the little break to be reminded to stop and look at the fishies and listen to the tick-tock of the clocks in my world.
Sep
11
Last Class, Take Two: I’m Already Being Challenged
Category: arts and crafts, literature, school | 1 Comment
My hope and goal was to be done with classes and have the diploma in hand about, well, right now. Due to circumstances I’m not going to publish on the web, my summer class did not work out. So, this week I started my last class, take two. In a lot of ways, I’m thrilled that the summer class didn’t work out. I have a far better professor, a far more engaged class, and an equally as fascinating topic—the Renaissance in England. This is a topic that I would like more knowledge of anyways, so it all works out.
The course objectives on the syllabus begins:
Often students enrolled in undergraduate classes which focus on literature from an earlier period—in our case, the 150 years spanning from 1516 to 1666—feel that everything there is to be said or written about such literature has been said or written already: in other words, the meaning and significance of these texts are already part of the historical record and we simply need to learn the facts. The main objective of this class is to pulverize that misconception.
Professor Maisano wasted no time in beginning to “pulverize that misconception.” Yesterday, as we worked through Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116, my classmate Bonnie pointed out that a reader could not fully understand this poem without further knowledge of Shakespeare’s use and meaning of “Fool.” While this is not knowledge that I hold, I tended to agree with her. See, I like to think of myself as just a common person, but there are a few areas where I will readily admit that I am a snob: literature, fabric, and yarn—three of my great loves.
I sat and waited for further discussion of Shakespeare’s use of the word “Fool,” but never heard it, for which I was greatly disappointed. I mean, one of the reasons I was taking this class was to get the ins and outs of the literature of the Renaissance. I want to be able to properly read literature of this time period.
And then came the kicker. Professor Maisano reminded us that the whole beginnings of the Renaissance are in the Reformation, when the common man was claiming the right to be able to read and interpret ancient texts for himself. So, if we are to truly understand the time period, shouldn’t we apply the same sort of right to new readers of this early literature?
While I appreciated this sentiment, as it would give me an opportunity to look at this literature with fresh eyes and interpret for myself, I was skeptical. It’s not that I haven’t interpreted things on my own before. I just thought I came to this class to learn all tricks to understanding the literature of the Renaissance.
As I drove to work after class, I thought about this. And I discovered that I probably will still learn those “tricks,” but not by being told them directly, but by journeying with my classmates to discover them anew. Aha! That professor—he’s good!
It also forced me to consider, though, the areas where I’m rather snobbish. I’m all about people reading literature for themselves, but I’m not sure I ever really thought they could discover the importance of said literature without a degree in literature. I’m rethinking that now.
The fabric and yarn snobbery? That’s going to be a little harder to change. I’m a fabric and yarn snob because I figure that if I’m going to spend that much time making something, I want it to last. So, I use high quality yarn and fabric. But, it’s probably time to stop looking down upon those who don’t have the same views on fabric and yarn. Their goals may not be the same as mine, and that doesn’t make them any less valid. Ah, a dialectic!
So, thank you Professor Maisano for beginning to challenge me so early in the semester. These specific challenges may not have been your direct goal, but I suspect they are on the path to the bigger picture you would like me to gain. If I’ve already began to challenge this much in the first week, I look forward to what is to come!
I am so excited and grateful to be back at the school I’ve worked at for the past year and a half. The job market is tough out there, and when it became pretty clear that I wasn’t going to find a job in my field within the next few months, I messaged my former boss to see if they had hired a new after care director yet. Not only was that position still available, but they also had a preschool aide position. Two weeks ago I went back to work, and last Thursday the kiddos came back to school.
It was an interesting start to the year. We rent our building from the city. Having outgrown the building and mobile units we have, the administration began work to have new mobile units put in. Well, school started last week; the old mobile units are gone, and we’re still waiting for the new ones. This means we’re missing four classrooms. While it’s been difficult for everyone (especially the teachers without classrooms!), everyone has had good attitudes about it and are smiling on the outside to help get the year off to the right start with the kids.
The kids came back on Thursday. I was amazed how nervous I was. I was mostly nervous about my schedule, I think. I have a split shift three days a week (Monday, Wednesdays, and Fridays). I’m in at 7:45 a.m. with the rest of the teachers and work with the four-year-old preschool class until 12:30 p.m. Then I have a two and a half hour break before I come back to run after care from 3:00 p.m. to 5:30 p.m. It turns out to be a pretty long day—especially considering I leave the house at 6:30 a.m. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, though, I only run after care, so those days will be a little easier.
I was nervous, but the kids quickly eased those nerves. We made it through the first day with no tears! Not even the three-year-olds cried during drop-off. They were all excited to get started and hang out with their new friends. They are a sweet bunch of kids.
So, I’m excited about the new year. I’m also thrilled for more kidisms to experience and record. The first two days were no exception. Here’s a few to get you through your Tuesday that feels like a Monday.
On Thursday after lunch, both preschool classes were playing in the four-year-old room. A couple of kids were playing with something that had a television character on it. I didn’t see what it is…only overheard the conversation. As they were playing, one of the three-year-old girls said, “I used to watch this when I was a kid.” Is it just me, or are they growing up too quickly these days?!
On Friday both preschool classes made thumbprint cookies. I left before the kiddos ate them—they were going to have them after rest time. One of the three-year-old girls, E, is in after care each day. Her dad picked her up at the same time as another mom and daughter, V, came to get one of my kindergarteners. I thought they’d left, but the dad came back in and said that E was saying something about a cookie for her and her mom. I explained that the preschoolers had made thumbprint cookies that morning, and I asked E if she’d gotten to eat hers. She said, “No. I get to take them home for me and mommy.”
So, we went to search and search for the thumbprint cookies. I checked both classrooms. I checked the teacher’s lounge. We found no cookies. So, I got down on E’s level, and so did her dad. She climbed on his knee, and I said, “E, I tell you what. Some day next week I’m going to bring in a very special treat for you and mommy, ok?”
“Ok, Miss Val.”
Then I remembered that I had two chocolate chip cookies in my bag that I had made two days earlier. I had brought them for a snack that day, but hadn’t eaten them. So, I said, “E, you know what? Do you like chocolate chip cookies?”
I got a nod.
“Does mommy like chocolate chip cookies?”
I got another nod.
“Well, you know what? I have two chocolate chip cookies in my bag, and they are for you and mommy! How’s that? I know it’s not the cookies you made, but they’re yummy cookies. Would that be ok?”
I got another nod. So, off to my bag I went to get the cookies. I took them to E, and I got a great big hug. Off she and her daddy went to collect her things and go home. I went back into the teacher’s lounge to finish up with my last little one and her sister, who was eating a cupcake. V (now a third-grader) said, “Miss Val, you’re just like Mary Poppins! You can pull anything out of your bag!”
That may very well be the best compliment I’ve ever received. It’s kept me smiling all weekend. And tomorrow? It’s back to the grind—finger painting, playing games, singing the days-of-the-week song, telling stories, and playing on the playground. I hope you have a good Tuesday too!
Yesterday I had the great pleasure of seeing Julie and Julia with Mom and Vera. I had heard great things about the movie, and honestly? It had Meryl Streep playing Julia Child; I knew it would be a movie to remember. What I didn’t realize is that it would be a movie I’d relate to on so many levels. I had feelings of this throughout the movie, but none more than the dessert schplat scene. Julie Powell had made a raspberry cream dessert, and she took it to work for her coworkers. As she walked along the street, after getting off of the subway, the dessert fell through the paper bag she was carrying and schplat all over the ground.
I was sitting between Mom and Vera during the movie, and at that very moment they both looked at me and laughed. The three of us laughed loudly and much longer than the scene probably intended to chuckle the audience. See, that has happened to me. It was November 2001…
“It Must Be Friday”
(This piece was originally written in February, 2002.)
When I joined the real world workforce almost five years ago, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I had heard horror stories about Mondays–everyone hates Mondays, right? But, I had no idea that Fridays would be even worse. Everyone spoke with such reverence of Fridays. Everyone always says, “Thank goodness it’s Friday!” There is even a restaurant named after the famed phrase – TGI Fridays. So why, then, is Friday my absolute worst day of the week? I think it has a small part to do with the hype surrounding Fridays. Any day given that much hype is certain not to fulfill its expectations–at least not for me.
Ask anyone in my office, and they will tell you that I hate Fridays. They did not believe me until a fateful day last November. It was our annual pre-Thanksgiving potluck. Now, there is something you must understand. I am known in the office as being a Martha Stewart clone. I bring treats in for each co-worker’s birthday. So far I have not repeated a recipe. Needless to say, everyone was looking forward to my dessert and Swedish meatballs for the potluck. Plus, I had teased them all week. I even got up extra early to add the final touches on my Peanutty Chocolate cake. It was perfect.
Due to finishing it in the morning, I got a bit of a late start to work. I missed my train and opted to drive. As I had a lot to carry anyway, driving in was for the best. That way I only had to cross the bridge over the Chicago River once; it is a three-block walk from the parking garage, as opposed to a 12-block walk from the train. It was the perfect plan. I was going to avoid my typical “Friday.”
The drive downtown was fairly uneventful. Traffic was horrendous, as usual, so I was late. I called my boss to let her know. She was looking forward to my Peanutty Chocolate cake, so she did not say a whole lot. I got downtown, parked my car, gathered my belongings, the cake and the meatballs, and began trudging to work. I walked the two blocks to the bridge to cross the Chicago River. Just as I was about to step onto the bridge, I felt this schplat against my leg and then a clunk against my foot. I suddenly realized that my cake platter seemed very light, and looked down on my foot. My entire beautiful cake was splattered upside down on the sidewalk of North Clark Street. I did not know whether to laugh or cry. I decided to laugh, as did all of the people walking past me.
I started to scrape the cake back onto the platter, to throw away once I was at work. Well, that proved to be a disastrous mess, as I collected chocolate and peanut butter goo all over my hands. I decided to leave the cake splattered on the Clark Street Bridge.
Covered in chocolate and peanut butter, I entered my office. Almost immediately I was bombarded–everyone wanted to see this cake I had raved about. I looked at them and told them it was gone, a victim of the bridge. No one believed me. They all said something to the effect of, “Don’t tease us like that, Val! Seriously, where’s the cake?” And I very seriously replied, “It is on the bridge. If you want some, go help yourself, but hurry before the pigeons get it!”
A couple hours later two of my co-workers went to run errands. When they came back, they stopped by my desk laughing hysterically. Finally one of them spit out, “Guess what we just saw?” I replied, “My cake?” And the hysterics began again. Soon it spread through the entire office that I was, in fact, not kidding.
Later that afternoon, one of the executives in the office came by my desk asking me to stay late and finish a project for him (another Friday staple). He sensed I was not having a good day and asked what was wrong. I said, “Well, it’s been a Friday. It started with this lovely dessert I made for the potluck…”
He cut me off saying, “That was your cake on the bridge?” Hysterical laughing once again ensued. My co-workers named it the “Bridge Cake” and wanted to know when I was bringing it again. Never, I responded. The cake is doomed–just like Fridays. Actually, a better name for it would be the “Friday Cake.” I was at work until 7:30 that evening finishing the project that executive brought to me that afternoon. While everyone else was out enjoying their weekend, I was eating my leftover meatballs and finishing up emergency projects. This is my life of Fridays.
I have been told that I seem to be a little negative towards Fridays. Do not get me wrong; I cannot wait until the weekend just like the next person, but I wish we could get there without having to go through Friday first. Weekends would be much better if they started after Thursday. Ok, maybe not, because then Thursdays would replace my Fridays. It is just a doomsday; that is all there is to it.
As I was walking back to my car that November Friday night, I crossed the bridge to find the not so pretty scene of my cake splattered, kicked and mangled on the sidewalk. Actually, it looked a bit like a horse had done his business there. As I passed the pile on the sidewalk, I stopped and paused to turn around to watch a few people stop and try to figure out what was lying on the sidewalk. I had to chuckle. They would never know what it was, or what they were missing. My step was a little lighter, just like the empty cake platter I was carrying. Thank goodness it’s Friday, I thought.
Next week we start moving Mom and Dad to Michigan. This is a piece I wrote about our family and moving for a writing class during Spring semester. Gonna miss you, Mom and Dad!
Our last name is Winters. In fun sometimes people ask if we change our name with the seasons. Mom has a “Winter Wall” in her house. It’s filled with cross stitched and embroidered scenes of winter–snowflakes and snowmen. Nearest to the door to Dad’s office is one that I did. It’s a snowman couple, the husband in a top hat and the wife in a hat with holly on it. There’s a single red berry in the holly. To the left of the husband I’d embroidered “30 years of Winters…” for their 30th anniversary.
Kitty-corner to my embroidery is a quilt wall-hanging Mom made. It’s redwork embroidery–one little snowman in each square, sashed and bordered with red fabric and snowman beads. It was her first go at quilting, something that I had been doing for four years. Now we go shopping together, take classes together, and sew together.
When I was 12 Mom and Dad came into my bedroom and told me that we were moving to Minnesota. Dad had accepted a position at a college in Minnesota. I cried a little, then asked whether I could have a room without green carpet. There was green carpet everywhere upstairs. “We will find a house without green carpet,” Dad said.
A few weeks later, the first weekend in May, we drove our Dodge minivan to Minnesota. I stayed with my brothers Ben and Jon while mom and dad looked for a place. When Mom and Dad took us to see the house they’d chosen, my bedroom had a shag carpet from the 70’s. Mom and Dad promised to replace it with whatever I’d like. I told them I liked pink. The pictures Mom took of the house show a dusting of snow on the ground. It was a great topic of discussion. “Are you sure you want to move somewhere that snows the first weekend of May?” their friends would ask. Mom and Dad were sure.
After I graduated from high school and went off to college, Dad went back to Northwestern University to get his PhD. I joined them in the Chicago area two years later. While working on his PhD, Dad accepted a part-time position as the director of a learning center that offered free tutoring to children with dyslexia, his specialty. When his PhD was completed, the organization offered him a position as the Executive Director of Clinical Affairs for the entire organization. The position was in Massachusetts.
Dad was more unsure about this move than any other they had made. They had spent their lives in the Midwest and both of their families were in the Midwest. He brought Mom to Massachusetts to see the Lexington office where he would be working, to see the area, and to look for a house. They found a brick colonial in what used to be Fort Devens, and they fell in love with it. And then it snowed. It was the third weekend in May.
By then I had a job as a marketing assistant at a commercial real estate firm in downtown Chicago, and I had started taking evening classes at the DuPage Community College. I was enjoying my writing classes with Thomas Montgomery-Fate. When I told him that my parents were moving to Massachusetts, he suggested I go with them because Boston has so many great universities. I dismissed the thought.
My roommate moved back home to go to cosmetology school, and I wasn’t having any luck replacing her. The washing machine plumbing went kaplooey, and I was going to have to move to another apartment while they fixed it. When Mom came over to help pack up my kitchen she asked, “Why don’t you move to Massachusetts with us?” They’d bought this big house, and there would be plenty of room for my Cairn Terrier Toto and me. I could save some money and go back to school.
I agreed. Thanks to the plumbing issue, I could break my lease. That weekend we packed up my apartment. The movers came on Sunday, moved my stuff to Mom and Dad’s, and stacked it all in their living room. The couch was on its side. The living room was open with a cathedral ceiling and the boxes were stacked past the landing of the second floor.
We’ve been here for almost seven years. At the end of January, Dad found a posting for a position in academia, his dream since he got his PhD. He thought he’d worked himself into a niche, thought he had little chance, but he applied, hoping for at least a phone interview. He got that phone interview and then flew to Michigan for a face-to-face interview. He was offered the job as Department Head for the Special Education Department and Eastern Michigan University.
Dad wouldn’t accept the job without letting Mom see the area. The Wednesday before they left, Dad checked the weather. He called Mom and told her, “There’s no snow forecast.”
The day before they left, Mom called me. “It’s going to snow when Dad and I are in Michigan this weekend.”
“You’re kidding me!” I exclaimed. “Well, that’s it then. It’s settled. You guys are moving to Michigan.
Ypsilanti got four inches of snow that weekend. It was the first weekend in April. Mom says the new house will have a Winter room, not just a wall. I call dibs on that room, as long as there’s no green carpet.
Countdown to graduation: 12 hours, 27 minutes and 3 seconds. Last night was the Honors Program Reception. Each Honors Program graduate (44 this year!) received their medal and had a little profile read about them. Joyce, the Honors Program Coordinator, writes lovely profiles for each graduate each year. You can see them read my profile here: Receiving my Honors Award.
This is the text of my profile…
Valerie Winters, or Miss Val, as she is known to her after-school program students, has an endless supply of creativity, which she expresses in many media: her blog, “Beauty and the Bug,” creative writing including beautiful fairy tales, and truly amazing works in textiles–yarn, quilting, and embroidery. Each of her stories has an accompanying quilt, and she produced a quilt and piece of fiction for an English independent study this semester. Her creativity carried over into her thesis, aptly titled “the Potter and the Clay: Oral History as Literature,” for which she received support from the undergraduate research fund. Prof. Taylor Stoehr directed her thesis. Valerie also tutored English and Psychology during her undergraduate career, and she is an avid “Buffista”–that is, a fan and scholar of the series “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” She enjoys the devoted companionship of her Cairn Terrier, Toto. She graduates cum laude with Honors in English. After graduation, Valerie plans to work in marketing or communications, hopefully for a non-profit, while she writes the five books currently stuck in her head.
For all of my creativity, I have never considered myself an artist. I think it’s because I can’t draw. Now, when I say I can’t draw, I mean I can’t draw. My kiddos at work think my stick figures look funny. For months after I started working with them, they wouldn’t believe I couldn’t draw. They would always beg me to add things to the pictures they were working on, and I’d say, “Oh, trust me; you don’t want me to do that.”
Finally, one day, my preschooler Albert convinced me to draw something on his picture that he wasn’t sure how to draw. I can’t remember what it was, but I’ll never forget what he said, “Miss Val, you ruined my picture!” From then on, I only got asked to draw things when the kids want a good laugh.
On Tuesday, Rachel, one of my first-graders, asked me to play a game with her. She grabbed two pieces of paper and two markers. She instructed me to draw a square in the middle of the paper, and she drew a square in the middle of her paper. “Now draw another square in the middle, Miss Val,” she continued to instruct and model. “Good. Now draw a person in the middle. It’s ok if it’s just a stick person.”
I did as I was instructed, wondering what this game was.
“Now Miss Val, give the big square alien ears.” Next she told me to draw a chair. She didn’t like the way I was drawing it, so she stopped me, and said, “No, Miss Val. Like this,” pointing to her picture where she was modeling what I should be drawing.
We drew a person sitting on the chair. I gave that person hair. We wrote messages on the bottom of the paper and drew a smiley face. “Rachel, what is this game?” I asked.
“It’s not a game, silly! I’m trying to teach you how to draw!”
For all of my creativity, I am not an artist. But, it’s ok. I’ll keep learning. I’ll keep letting the kiddos teach me. And I’ll smile when my preschooler, Emily, tells me that my dirt cooking activity (chocolate pudding with crushed Oreos and gummy worms) is “clever.” Yes, I’m ok with being creative and not an artist.
I had promised count down updates back on June 27, 2008, but somehow I never really did that. So, here I sit, with my computer flashing 12 days, 1 hour, and 40 minutes, and I feel the urge to give you all a countdown update. It may be one of my great productive procrastination techniques, but I’m going to go with it.
There’s been something about this semester that’s been weird. I haven’t had time to focus on graduation and the excitement that comes along with that because life has been full of surprises (and little crises) that have needed my attention. This is what happens when you’re living life to the fullest, I suppose. It’s probably also a picture of what is to come. Honestly, though? I’ve been exhausted this semester–running from one task to the next with really quite too much on my plate.
But here I am, 12 days, 1 hour, and 36 minutes away, and I feel this energy that I’ve never felt before. I jump out of bed in the mornings to get right to work. I have a lot to complete before next Thursday (when ALL of my professors decided to make final projects due), but there is a belief that I will and can get it done, if I just work hard and keep pushing. So, I push, and I work, and I drink my coffee and put one foot in front of the other. And the creative juices are cooperating! They’re flowing and helping me get through. Go figure! They’re actually there when I need them!
Things are coming together, readers. I’m going to walk at graduation! Then I’m going to finish up a few things over the summer, and I’ll be a girl with a bachelor’s degree. The energy? It’s high, exciting, and contagious! 12 days, 1 hour, and 33 minutes to go!
