Memorial

Memorial

I remember how Papa

Walked over the hill,

His face bright and shining

His voice, calm and still.

He told me he loved me

And kissed me goodbye,

And marched off to war

To do battle and die.

I remember how Mama

Stood watching him go,

And whispered a prayer

And let her tears flow.

She pulled me up close

And took hold of my hand,

And we turned and walked slowly

Across the hot sand.

I’ve never forgotten

What happened that day,

And I’ll always remember

The wind and the spray

And Papa who kissed me

And answered the call,

And Mama who loved me

And stood straight and tall.

And now the years flow

My own children live free

And I tell them of Papa

And Mama and me.

I will help them remember

Those who went and who stayed,

And the blessings they gave us

And the price that they paid.

By Lisa Marie Scotto

How Does Your Garden Grow?

How Does Your Garden Grow?

I come from a long line of gardeners and every summer, I plant my favorite vegetables and flowers in a small patch in my yard. I get a lot of pleasure from my zucchinis; tomatoes, eggplant, asparagus and herbs, but I also get a lot of work.

Gardening is more than browsing seed catalogs and harvesting fresh veggies.  First the earth must be turned and fertilized. Then, the beds must be prepared and the seedlings planted. Seedlings must be watered and watched for pests. Rabbits and groundhogs consider gardens fast food markets. Slugs and other crawling things are always waiting to invade. But it is weeds that really wear me out.

Weeds get my goat.  I spend many an hour pulling them and I have been known to, let’s say, lecture them -- oh, all right, shout at them. What right do they have to grow in my carefully tended garden? Why are you taking water and nourishment from my plants? This is my dirt. Go find somewhere else to grow!  I work hard at it and do a pretty good job of keeping them out. The perimeter of my garden, the showy part, is spotless, or should I say, weedless.  It’s the interior that gives the greater challenge.

In the spring, it’s sometimes hard to tell the weeds from the seedlings. As the plants grow, it gets harder and harder to reach in among the greenery and pull out the sneaky weeds that are camouflaged within. It is especially hard around asparagus. 

After harvesting the spring growth of asparagus, the plants must be allowed to grow the beautiful ferns that will feed the roots during the summer. Asparagus is a great crop, plant the roots and harvest sprouts for about fifteen years.  But letting the ferns grow while trying to keep the weeds out is tricky business. It’s a jungle in there. So I put on my armor, my long sleeves, long pants and hat, and crawl on in.

Some people, notably those who do not take weeds as a personal affront (and those who do not want to be recruited to help weed), have suggested that I just let the weeds grow up with the asparagus. Keep the outside weedless and forget about the sweaty labor of crawling under the ferns. The flowers surrounding the garden look lovely, and the immediate inner garden looks great. Why fuss?

Well, I fuss and I crawl right in. I get ferns in my hair and fern dust on my face but I also reap a great asparagus harvest every April, May and June.

So what does all this have to do with parenting? Children are like a garden. We plant them, we tend them, and we watch them grow. And they are hard work.  Keeping the outside of a child, the showy part, looking good is difficult enough. Changing diapers, clipping fingernails and washing behind ears are tough.

I see a lot of kids with the latest hairdos, fashionable clothes and trendy sneakers. These kids look like beautiful flowers. But what’s going on in the inside of these pretty blossoms? What weeds are creeping in to strangle their roots? What values are your children learning?  Where are they getting these values? Are the weeds of popular culture, TV, movies and videos taking over the good soil? Are they keeping your child from getting the full nourishment needed? What are you doing to keep the weeds out?  What values are you putting in?

So tend your children the way I tend my garden. Keep the outside looking good, but don’t neglect the inside. Crawl in and pull out the weeds. Decide what values you want your children to have, teach them, and work hard to give them room to grow.  It might be messy work, but you’ll reap a wonderful harvest. 

         

A Mother's Hands

A Mother’s Hands

Have you heard about the new rejuvenating treatments for hands? Now brown spots, bulging veins and wrinkled fingers can be restored to their youthful appearance so that they won’t give your age away. Makes sense in a world of Botox and face lifts.  

I have noticed a change in my hands. More and more when I look at them, I see my mother’s hands. This doesn’t make me worry about aging though; I wonder if I will be worthy of such hands.

I remember my mother’s hands. I see them changing my baby brother’s diapers as he wiggled. I see them tickling his elbows and knees. I see them washing a mountain of dishes after feeding six hungry children. I see those hands washing faces, scrubbing knees, and brushing hair. I see them folded in prayer.  

I feel my mother’s hands too. I feel them patting my back when I choked on the penny I had so foolishly swallowed. I feel them soothing my arms and legs with cool water as I burned with fever. I remember the pull as she smoothed my unmanageable hair into the pony tails I’d begged for.  

Those hands held me close. They soothed my feelings and healed my hurts. They lovingly corrected my errors, taught me life lessons, and washed my socks. A mother’s hands teach her children about the world and love is their primary lesson.

I hope that my hands continue this legacy.

As I age, I wonder if I will see my grandmother’s hands. Her hands packed up meager belongings and immigrated to a new world. Her fingers embroidered beautiful tablecloths and handkerchiefs as she struggled to learn English and keep house for her brothers. Her hands made a home for her children in America. They worked long hours cooking in her husband’s restaurant and, when he became ill, those same hands worked in a chocolate factory, hour after hour, banging the frames to knock out the molded candy.  

I remember those hands cutting up zucchini and garlic, chopping carrots and celery, kneading the pizza dough and throwing it joyfully into the air, then expertly catching it. I watched them rolling the pasta-stick shaping each delicate piece. Her hands folded mountains of clothes, crocheted mittens and slippers, massaged aching muscles and pulled dandelions to cook for a special treat. Once, when I lay very sick, those hands spent hours chopping ice with a hammer to cool my throbbing throat.  

Of course I had two grandmothers. My father’s mother sewed beautiful clothes with her hands. She dreamed of sewing my wedding dress, but her hands fell still too soon. I still see those hands though, brushing the crumbs from the table, washing the greens in the sink, passing the pasta, weeding the garden, illustrating a story.
 

When I think of these things, aging hands seem a blessing. I wonder if other parts of me will come to resemble my mother. Will I develop eyes that see only good in others? Will my ears strain to hear the joy in the hearts of my children? Will my feet hurry to help and my arms yearn to carry the hurts away and surround those hurting with love?  Will my heart grow more tender and full?

My mother’s hands held my children too, and my children’s children now. They still comfort and caress. They still hold me close. 

They don’t look old to me.

         

         

         

A Teacher's Heart

A Teacher’s Heart

In a former life, I worked as an accountant. My life was filled with numbers. During the weeks before my daughter was born, my workplace was being audited. The auditor and I joked that the baby would be born with a calculator in her hand.   

A few hours after my daughter was born, the phone rang beside my hospital bed. It was the auditor. 

“I just have few questions,” he said. I answered them and then asked him if he realized that I had just delivered a baby. 

“What made you think I could remember all those numbers?”

“I knew you could,” he replied. “You are an accountant after all.”

It’s true. An accountant’s head is full of numbers. I remembered them all. A banker’s head must be full of money. A writer’s head is full of words, a plumber’s is full of pipes and a musician’s full of music. A teacher’s head, of course, is full of children.  And I remember them all. 

I remember the little girl who could never keep her shoes tied or her pencil sharpened.  I remember the little guy who got so involved in his work that he didn’t hear the fire bell.  I remember the kid who constantly worried that there wouldn’t be enough Popsicles, pencils or popcorn and shouted out, “He can have mine!”  I remember the two “naughty” boys who were first to offer to share when we did run short.   

I remember the kids whose parents were in the midst of divorce and the few that lost a parent in death, the tremors and tears and little fingers that slipped into my hand needing reassurance, the sweeties who shouted out that they would be a big brother or sister soon.  I remember the ones who couldn’t read but tried really hard and the ones who could and gently helped a needy friend.  

Children fill my head. Every year more entered my room and memory bank. I didn’t always remember the names correctly, but I never forgot a child. Each and every one is precious. 

Teachers often sit and reminisce about memorable students. Remember the little cutie who was so sweet that every teacher threatened to keep him back just so he could be in her class again? How about that sweetie who asked for teaching materials for her class of stuffed animals at home? Or the one who went about every day so full of life that sunshine followed her about?

Smiles and giggles fill my head. The sound of childish voices belting out a song echoes in my ears. A thoughtful reader is a wondrous thing no matter how slow or hesitantly the words come out. A budding artist glowing over a minor masterpiece, or a “mathmagician” who just figured out what regrouping is all about join the happy camper who never knew what page we were on and the quiet cuddler who reached out to touch my hand while walking in line. Rapt faces, that gazed up at me as I played all the parts in every storybook I read, reflect in my mind’s eye and slide right down into my heart.

 For that is the key to remembering. Every child a teacher remembers leaks down from her mind and seeps into her heart. Naughty or nice, they will always be your children. They will always be your boys and girls, your class, the children of your heart. And even though we borrow them from their parents for only a year, we share their joys and sorrows and hold them dear. 

  

A teacher’s heart is full of children and a heart full of children will never grow old.