Magic and Christmas Cookies

My childhood was not perfect, but I think that with the passing of time I am able to recall more of the good and the bad fades out of memory.  And while my parents were not perfect, what I appreciate and love the most about them is the fact that they always tried.  They always made time for me and my brother and did things for us and with us when it would have been easier to claim exhaustion.

Now married with four children of our own, I spend a great deal of time wondering about how my children will reflect upon their own childhoods.  Have I given them enough positive experiences to reflect upon when they are my age?  Have there been enough playgrounds, museums, board games, dinners, and movies?  Mostly, have they laughed enough?  My thought/fear is…probably not.

I know that using my own experiences as a measuring stick for my children is not fair—the memories of their childhoods cannot and should not be the same as my own.  However, there still may be some memories and traditions that I can pass down…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When I was young, Christmas time was cookie time.  Mom did all of the baking and took requests.  Favorites cookies included chocolate chip, M&M, seven-layer (I loved every single layer), jewel, oatmeal (no raisins and certainly no chocolate chips), sugar (thin and buttery in Christmas shapes) and holly (involving corn flakes, melted marsh mellows, green food dye, and cinnamon red hot candies).  In many ways, Christmas was defined by the smells of Mom’s baking as much as any other single sign.

While Mom baked, Dad typically stayed out of the kitchen (even at our tender young ages my brother and I understood this as a sign of his manly wisdom).  However, there was a single, notable exception where he took the lead role—my Dad’s peanut butter balls.  I don’t know the origin of the recipe, but the ingredients for this sweet were deceptively simple: confectionary sugar, butter, peanut butter, chocolate, and paraffin.  But they came together in an ecstasy of yumminess.  Mom and Dad would assemble the finished peanut butter balls in neat little rows in the refrigerator—a perfect rectangular array.  I spent a large part of vacation trying to sneak these from the refrigerator and rearranging the piles so that they might not notice the missing balls. 

And then my brother and I grew up.  Mom and Dad relocated from Virginia to Pennsylvania in 1986.  We went to college and, for some reason, the tradition of the peanut butter balls faded.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When Mom passed away, Dad tried to find good homes for some of the things she cherished; one of those was her recipe box.  Among the various recipes were all of her cookie recipes and with that was formula for the peanut butter balls.  Several years ago I came up with the idea of bringing back the peanut butter balls.  Perhaps more than wanting to relive my own childhood, I wanted my own four children to have the same experience that I had, from the smells of melting chocolate right down to sneaking them from the refrigerator.

So here is my Christmas Wish for all of you: that you keep alive the memories and traditions that made you happy as a child, or that you are able to make new memories with families and friends.  Play your Christmas songs too loud and too often, bake too many cookies, hang too many lights, watch too many holiday specials, use too much wrapping paper, or drink too much eggnog.  Make someone’s eyes sparkle, give many hugs, and pass the love of the season along.

Have a Merry Christmas,

Phillip

A Father's Day Legacy

Author’s note:

Portions of what follows have been written over the past 2 months.  I never seem to be able to unite the ideas—could never find the common thread.  Well, maybe today I did.

 

                Confession time:  I stink as an adult.

                Oh, my wife Susan will deny that this is so, but this is more some sort of spousal support than a denial of the reality that I just hate to put on the big boy pants.  Examples abound: she maintains the check book (I also have a fear of banks, or more specifically bank tellers), she does 99% of the laundry (I can fold a pair of jeans, but everything else is a mystery), I never know where exactly I am driving to, I still throw occasional temper-tantrums (ask my students or better yet my own children), and I often find both yard work and cooking dinners absolutely overwhelming.  See what I mean?  I stink.

                Perhaps the real issue is the measuring stick that I use.  Growing up I naturally assumed that I would become the man I perceived my father to be; that my children would see me as I saw my dad.  I saw him wise as Solomon, brilliant as Einstein, with the work ethic of an Amish farmer, funny as Dick van Dyke, who always had time for a game of catch or to hear about my day.  I have told anyone that will listen that “Even if he weren’t my father, I would STILL think he is one of the greatest men I have ever known.”  And here is what amazes me today at age 43: looking back, that idealized dad described above—the dad seen through the eyes of a child, the dad that could never be an honest measure of them man—well, the incredible thing is that I don’t think that I was far off as child.  I look with adult eyes now, but my opinion has not changed.

                Do my kids look at me and see the same things I saw in my dad?  I had always hoped so; it seemed like the natural order of things, like grizzly bears eating Canadians (shout out here to Berkley Breathed and the Red Ranger).  But here’s the deal.  I’m not my dad.  Instead I am stuck in this odd twilight zone experience of trying to live up to the legacy while at the same time, being true to me.  I have a different personality with different gifts and different faults.

                So today I was in Richmond, visiting Mike with Chloe, Max, and Susan.  Mike has a new place and there’s a tennis court and four of us hit the ball around.  After we called it quits and were walking off, Chloe says to me “Thanks, Dad, for playing tennis with me.”  That’s about all I need on Father’s Day.  On the way home tonight, I got to pick the music on Sirius FM the whole way home and I sang nearly the entire time.   And as my favorite songs played, I could hear Chloe or Max occasionally join in.  Just doesn’t get much better than that.  And then, after a long time of feeling a weight, I officially let myself off the hook.  I don’t need to be my dad, I just need to be me and be with my children.

                So here’s what any dad needs to be reminded of, today of all days: be the very best dad you can be.  Day in and day out.  You’ll make mistakes and pay for them.  You won’t be perfect and you’ll occasionally need to apologize to your children for major screw ups.  Assimilate the best of what you can from fathers around you (including yours) and do your best.  Maybe your dad flew kites with you, but it’s not your thing.  Ok.  Replace it with something else.  But be there for them, be present in their lives, and love them.  How you love them is uniquely up to you.  Just love them.  That’s the real lesson my dad gave me.

                Happy Father’s Day to the Big Guy.

Goodfellas

Sometime between Child Number Two and Child Number Three (or between Autumn Child and Winter Child or between Elizabeth and Chloe or between 1996 and 2000 for those of you who keep track of such things), my wife and I were living on only my teaching and her babysitting incomes.  By Friday night I considered surviving the week a considerable accomplishment if not an out-and-out miracle and a cause for great celebration.  However, as we were financially impoverished for perpetuity, not too great of a celebration.

One memorable Friday evening I suggested to her that we travel about half an hour to one of the nicer local eating establishments, Goodfellas.  The only hang up: it was the same night as the ring dance for the high school where I taught mathematics.  By Friday night I typically tried to avoid all contact with anyone under the age of 18, my own children not included, and thus all restaurants that might be playing host to the students.  But this evening we threw caution to the wind, arranged for a babysitter, and went out on a date.

Sure enough, upon arrival at the restaurant we recognized two couples—on a double date—eating dinner before the dance.  Fortunately, these were some of the finest my school district had to offer, four great kids that I didn’t mind seeing.  It seemed that they had arrived only shortly before we did.  I think I may have gone over and said hello before taking my seat, but in any case I acknowledged them and didn’t intrude.

Susan and I were seated, ordered, and then had a very pleasant dinner.  Conversation might have been about Michael and Elizabeth, or school, or math, or perhaps we just sat staring at each other.  Most likely math.

Towards the end of dinner our waiter approached our table and announced that our bill had been taken care of for us.  I remember thinking that people only say that in the movies and never in real life.  No one just pays for your meal without good reason.  On the other hand, the waiter was just standing there and was not acting as if this was a joke.  When we asked by whom, he gestured to the four high school students on their way out the door.

We were stunned, grateful, and amazed.  When every dollar seemed to weigh more than it should have, this was a true gift.

Later we found out that the church minister for one of the young men had also been at Goodfellas that evening and had done for the four of them what the students did for us.  He covered their bill as he was on the way out.  The fact that these teenagers chose to “pay it forward” to us made it no less remarkable.  Maybe even more so.  They had money in their pocket that they were planning on spending.  They had the chance to keep it all, but chose not to.

Since that time I have been the recipient of many, many gifts from students, parents, and community businesses and members.  These gifts have helped to make teaching worthwhile even when the paycheck has fallen short of what we need.  I am grateful for everything that has been done for me.  However, none have touched my heart as deeply as when that waiter said to us “Your bill has been taken care of.”  Thank you.

My Valentine

Without exaggeration, I can say that I am astounded every morning to wake up beside this amazing woman who has agreed to share my life.  That she does so contradicts every logic-loving brain cell that I have.  However, not only does she choose—daily, chooses—to share my dreams and failures, but she also shares (or in some cases, tolerates):

      ·         my teaching and love of mathematics
      ·         my terrible singing and my attempts at playing guitar
      ·         afternoon naps
      ·         sunrises, sunsets, thunderstorms, and blizzards
      ·         my corny jokes
      ·         the laughter and tears of parenthood
      ·         the toothpaste
      ·         the Church of Francis de Sales
      ·         home ownership (porch renovations, winter with a faulty/failing furnace, washing
             machines…)
      ·         my snoring (she says she doesn’t hear it)
      ·         cycling
      ·         my ipod playlists
      ·         game night with friends
      ·         my love of reading
      ·         vacations
      ·         my side of the family (they are less in-laws and more mutually adopted kin)

Several years ago I told a few of my students that it was easy to be in love while holding hands walking on the beach or under the lights of a summer night in Paris.  But who do you want to be with at the kitchen table, trying to figure out how to pay the bills or cleaning up the bathroom after a child has been ill?  If you can look at someone and say “Yes, there is no other person I want to be with in the tough times—when life isn’t coming up roses,” then you have found the one.

As surely as I know that I am not worthy of God’s love, I also know that I am not worthy of hers.  But she loves me anyway.

Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone.

How I Did Not Stab a Student with a Ticonderoga No. 2

     It was the end of the class period during the first test of the year in Calculus class and tension was thick.  To this day, students still tell me this was the most difficult written test of their lives.  Fourteen students, sweating putty-balls, and Stuart (*name changed) was close to the back row, contemplating his last problem of the test with a freshly sharpened pencil.

     My classroom was housed in a trailer behind the main building (I used to joke “Trailer Town—Where they can’t hear your screams.”  Oops.)  On this day, someone from the front office came and delivered a small stack of envelopes for about 8 students in the class.  I briefly debated about holding on to them until the bell rang, but with 5 minutes to go, I thought I could have a little fun with distributing their mail.  The envelopes were from the gifted coordinator of the school and no doubt contained information on upcoming opportunities, field trips and such.  I thought to myself “As tense as these kids are, if I pretend that I’m handing out bad news—like disciplinary letters—this could be amusing.”  Or, so I thought.  So I began arriving at each student’s desk with a grimace, looked them sternly in the eye, and thumped the envelope down on the desk.  Ha, ha…funny, right?

     I thumped an envelope down on a student’s desk in the very back row.  The next name was Stuart’s, who was sitting immediately behind me to my right (think big hand and 4:30 to where I was standing).  I sort of spun around (half-way) and without looking, attempted to thump the envelope on Stuart’s desk.

     Pain went through my palm and I examined my hand carefully.  There was a pencil mark (somewhat deep) on my hand and I complained to Stuart “You wrote on my hand!”  By now I had also registered that Stuart had said (quite calmly) “Ow.”  I continued “Why are you saying ‘Ow’ when your pencil jabbed my palm?”  To which he answered “Because my finger was on top of the pencil.”  I later determined that Stuart was meditating on Calculus (always an honorable pursuit) with his index finger perched sideways on the top of the freshly sharpened pencil, so that the fleshy party of the finger was resting on the lead (later we would ask “Why” but never received a satisfactory answer).  And so I learned that my hand had landed (thumped) Stuart’s finger, driving the conical lead point through his finger, into my palm, while breaking the lead off inside his finger.  The pencil was laying on the desk, the point was inside Stuart’s finger.

     As Stuart was examining his finger, it occurred to me that if I perhaps unfolded a paperclip, I could force the lead back out the way it came in.  I am quite certain that I had never before heard the voice of God so clearly as when he said (inside my head, in a loud booming voice that reminded me of James Earl Jones or possibly Darth Vader…never mind, same voice) “DON’T DO IT.”  I thought, “Fine.  I won’t do it.  Good point.”

     About now Stuart asked, “Can I go to the nurse?”  By now it was close to the end of the period and maybe two minutes from lunch.  I had a reputation as a hard-nosed math teacher to consider and I thought to myself “Eh… Stuart can wait until the bell.”  But before I could verbalize this thought, God spoke again (and maybe clearly for the last time in my life) and said “LET THE BOY GO!!”  Never one to contradict the clear presence and voiced opinion of a supreme deity, I said “Sure, if you need to.”

     Bell rings.  I collect students’ papers, they collect their books and leave, I sit down to have my lunch.  After a couple of bites, I think to myself “Maybe you should check on Stuart.”  Ugh.  Interrupting a perfectly good lunch.  Fine.  I’ll go check.

     Stuart is not be found by the nurse’s office so I continue towards the main office, where I come upon the type of crowd of students usually reserved for fights among hormonally-unbalanced freshmen.  Ah, but I am responsible teacher, and I think to myself “You must dive into the scrum and investigate such things immediately.”  I do.

     But it is not a fight that the students are watching.  No, there is a pale-faced Stuart passed out on the floor with one of the physical education teachers (who moonlights as an EMT) leaning over him.  Uh-oh.  So I ask her “Mrs. Holaday…what happened?”  She yells to me, “Someone stuck a pencil through Stuart’s finger!”  To which I reply “I might need to talk to you about that.”  However, the discussion was interrupted by the ambulance pulling up to a nearby exit.  Later I would learn that this was the second time he had passed out on the way up to the office.  You would have thought, after all the good advice, God might have said “Oh, and send someone with him from the class.”