returning to school this week for a bit of professional development. gearing up for the return of my kinders in just a couple of weeks. had a case of ‘mistaken identity’ this morning that made it clear that i’m getting back into school mode.
reached into my purse, and this is what i expected to put on my lips:
instead, this is what i actually put on my lips:
good thing it is ‘disappearing purple’ color.
————
cruising on woodward avenue as the sun goes down
it was wonderful to have once again attended the annual woodward avenue dream cruise in detroit, the motor city. home to the big 3 automakers. it’s the largest car cruise in all of north america, with cars driving from the river in downtown detroit, all the way to the north end of this historic avenue in pontiac.
there’s no need to know anything about cars or history to enjoy this event. here you’ll see every kind of vehicle imaginable: detroit muscle cars, famous cars, many rare classics, and more that are classics only in the owner’s eyes. all along the road, for many miles, will be people of every age and kind, sharing in the pure enjoyment of the day, with crazy events, creatures in costume, classic car-cruising food, and happiness, all coming together and spilling over onto the avenue.
on this day, differences are set aside and all the cities on the route, tv and radio stations, auto companies, people, and local businesses, work together to celebrate detroit’s heritage and its contributions to the world. even with all of detroit’s struggles, it’s so amazing to see people come together to celebrate each other and their city’s triumphs, and it shows their strength and refusal to give up, even through hard times. t’s always been one of the most open, happy, and pure celebratory events i’ve ever been lucky enough to be a part of, and i’m proud to say i’m from the motor city.
pre-cruise eve, teaching the kids how to play craps at their own mini-event
—————
I know a lot about cars, man. I can look at any car’s headlights and tell you exactly which way it’s coming. – Mitch Hedberg
Never have more children than you have car windows. Erma Bombeck
as i headed out to plant flowers in my little secret zen garden, tucked away behind the cottage where i live, i noticed that something was different. here, in my quiet sanctuary, the place where i can put my feet up, read a good book, listen to music, light a candle, stare into space, share a quiet conversation, and enjoy a lovely glass of wine – something was missing.
just a couple of weeks ago, after my return from the southern hemisphere, i had put up a simple string of buddhist flags. the flags are not valuable, nor are they rare, they are simply to remind one of the simplicity of life, to be grateful, to offer hope, and to remain there until they unravel and wither away, once again returning back into the universe. symbolism does not get much more low key or simple than this.
it was at this moment, i realized that someone had stolen the flags from weathered fence, right in the midst of my tiny refuge. while it may have been the mischief-making squirrels and other woodland creatures that share the space with me, who were behind this caper, i highly doubted it, as they do not have the best fine motor skills, nor thumbs. as for the wind, or other act of nature, the flags would have fallen within the confines of my fence, or there would have been some remnant of them, had they had a violent run-in with mother nature, which i deduced after surveying the surrounding area, using my c.s.i. skills.
this left one explanation. a human had come into my special place to heist the flags. i found this to be hilariously ironic and i had a good laugh standing there thinking about it. karma is a bitch, i thought. you must have needed them more than i did for some reason only known to yourself. probably someone who ascribed to the buddhist approach to life would find a conflict with the very act of stealing, but perhaps they still had a bit more evolving to do. later, i walked back downtown to the himilayan store, to purchase another string of flags to replace them, hoping these ones would remain just a bit longer this time.
the scene of the crime, sans the flags
———————-
here are 3 wisemen, whom i admire, each with their own take on the situation:
Nothing is permanent. ~ dalai lama
The robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief. – william shakespeare
Perhaps you should look at it differently. you have given a gift to the universe. -himilayan sherpa guy who owns the store
when he was just 6, one of my kindergarteners handed me this story that he had written using his invented spelling. . as he read it aloud to me, i transcribed it into more traditional adult spelling. i found it to be heartfelt and very funny and i’ve saved it among my treasured writings . recently, i gave him a copy of his story, as he heads off to college, a little older and perhaps little more worldly and wiser.
original invented spelling version
transcribed version
———————————————————————-
Women still remember the first kiss after men have forgotten the last.
i am fascinated, time and again, by my garbagemen. they’ve taken on the role of old-school catholic nuns – strict with their rules, calling me out in front of everyone, and trying to teach me using a tough love approach, though they use ink rather than chalk as their medium of choice, and rap my knuckles with pens rather than wooden rulers.
i am always amazed, that for some reason, there are times when they see fit to stop on their route and write me a note, leaving sticky notes on top of my bins. these notes tell me what i’ve done wrong: bins too close together, wrong item in the wrong bin, green bin to the left of the blue bin, trash not in alphabetical order, and god knows what else, a myriad of my garbage sins.
i find it hilarious that they will take the time to stop and write me these notes rather than just moving a bin over 8.5 inches if need be, taking the trash, and going on with their day. no, instead, they leave it full and with a note atop, promising to be back the next week at the appointed hour to attempt to pick it up again, when my mistake has been corrected. i imagine, at that point they figure i will have done my penance and they will have forgiven me my sins and they are willing and able help me to dispose of my trash, so that i can start anew with a clean slate once again. these guys are all forgiving and have no limit to trying to teach me to do better, and i plan to give them a lovely pen set for christmas this year.
I lived through the garbage. I might as well dine on the caviar . Beverly Sills
going through my mother’s papers – organizing, passing on, saving gems – i came across an old newspaper, circa 1962, and loved everything about this article:
“Show me a man with a great golf game, and I’ll show you a man who has been neglecting something.”
-John F. Kennedy
a human adventure of the finest sort brought to life from my recent time down under. i was so taken by this, i’ve decided to share it even though i’ve since returned. while i was there, an extraordinary woman passed away. this is her story.
Not what I have, but what I do is my kingdom. Thomas Carlyle
tributes poured in from around the world with the news that princess shirley casley, of hutt river, age 84, had passed away, surrounded by family and friends. shirley was the wife of self-proclaimed prince leonard casley, and matriarch of the principality of hutt river, a 75sqkm micro-nation north of perth.
prince richard casley, one of her seven children, said the family ‘was reeling from the loss of their rock, a woman who lived for her family, and a true matriarch.’ a fine familial tribute if i’ve ever heard one.
the casleys, a farming family, made history in 1970, when they declared their property to be a separate country apart from all of australia, in protest to the government’s imposition of low wheat production quotas. under australian law, the government had two years to respond to the declaration, and their failure to do so resulted in the official birth of the principality in 1972.
shirley and her prince leonard, the love of her life, bought their wheat farm in the 1960s, were married for 66 years, and raised seven children, twenty grandchildren, and thirty + grandchildren there. once the principality came into being, they introduced their own currency, postage, and visa requirements.
prince richard said his mother preferred to stay out of the spotlight, but was the behind the scenes driving force behind the principality – hosting dignitaries, media, and the 40,000 tourists who visited each year. ‘we’ve had messages from people all over the world who knew her. she was a very special woman to so many people – she enjoyed life,” he said. an understatement i’m sure.
———————–
Our ambition should be to rule ourselves, the true kingdom for each one of us; and true progress is to know more, and be more, and to do more. Oscar Wilde
recently, i ordered a painting online from an artist i’ve admired for a while and i really looked forward to finally having a piece of her beautiful work up on my wall. within hours of my order, amelie personally responded with a thank you, told me she lived in poland, said she’d post it the next day, and that i should plan to receive it within a week’s time. i happily awaited its arrival. this was where things began to take a turn.
true to her word, within a week, i arrived home and found a ‘you were out when we tried to deliver your package so you missed this chance and now we need to come up with another plan’ note from the post office, stuck to my door. the choices offered on the note were that i could check a box to have my package redelivered and left in my door, or i could pick it up at the post office. i went with the pickup at the post office option.
the next day, i waited in the long line, made my way to the front, and presented the woman at the counter with my note. after looking in the back, she came out empty-handed and announced, ‘funny, we can’t seem to find it. maybe it never made it through customs.’ i replied that i thought it was odd because it obviously had made it here as it was ‘almost delivered’ the day before. her response, ‘well, maybe it will get delivered to your house tomorrow or it will turn up back here. if you don’t get it tomorrow, call us or stop back in.’
the next day: still no package. i went back in, stood in line, got to the front, gave them my note again, all with the same results – no package to be found. they called the manager of the branch to the front who she said she would look into it and do her own investigation, as she could not figure out where it could be, told me to give it a few more days.
in the meantime, amelie emailed me from poland to see if it had arrived safely, and i told her it had been here, but was now lost. she wondered if said if perhaps her english wasn’t good enough because she didn’t understand. i assured her that i had a pretty good command of the english language and that i did not understand either.
in a few more days: still no package. i went back in and this time, the post office said, ‘hmmm, this has happened to a few other packages here, i think the night guy just likes to clear them out of here and sends them on. i’ll check into that. do you have any insurance on your package? i’ll let you know tomorrow what i find out.’
the next day: ‘oh it’s you again. let me get the postmistress to help you.’ she comes out and this is our conversation:
pm: for some reason it looks like they’ve forwarded your package on. do you have some other address or a forwarding address of some sort?’
me: ‘no i do not. i have lived in my house for 10 years and have no reason to forward my mail anywhere.’
pm: ‘well, for some reason it’s been forwarded, though we can’t tell where, probably downtown, and because it will get there with no forwarding address, it will be forwarded back here. we’ll call you when it gets here, it should only take a week or so for it to get forwarded back here.’
me: ‘so, are you saying it was forwarded somewhere but you don’t know where or why and because i don’t have a forwarding address it will be forwarded back here and somehow find it’s way back here to you?’
pm: ‘yes.’
the next week: i went in, brought my tattered note, and waited in line one more time. upon my arrival at the counter, the postmistress appeared at the counter, retrieved my package from the back, covered in postmarks and stickers, with no further explanation. i went home with my painting, emailed amelie to tell her it was in my hands at last, and assured her that her english was just fine.
how the postal workers at the counter appear. everything is under control.
what is really going on in the back. their system is up and running.
when it all gets to be too much. where some of the lost mail goes missing.
as i teacher, i enjoy spending time in the summer walking outside and have noticed that the great majority of people sharing the streets with me are off-seasonal workers. what an interesting bunch of characters we are. street performers, tax guys, mall santas, elves, reindeer, grinch, children, dogs, fellow teachers, train hoppers, sumos?. these are my people.
I didn't have my glasses on.... 