Shit Happens

           Shit Will Always Happen...

 Why the Hell Did I Name My Blog “Shit Happens”?  Well, not only do I find great enjoyment in cussing, regardless of how “un-fucking-lady-like” it seems, the title is actually based on a poster that my dad designed of me when I was a senior in high school.  Yes, it was labeled with big, bold, white letters claiming “Shit Happens” below an enormous picture of me and my bike. My bike, leg cast, and helmet pieces, I might add.

  In 1988, I had been in a horrible bicycle accident during my ride on a 50 mile bike tour that my brother, my friend Heather, and I decided to participate in.  We had all been riding regularly and were attracted to the haunted name of the tour, The Ride of the Living Dead, to take place in beautiful Lake Perris around Halloween time. The t-shirts we received for this particular ride were black with a neon colored skeleton riding a bicycle, which, ironically, ended up being a great symbol of foreshadowing for me, so it goes. 

         The day of the tour had finally arrived and about half-way through the ride, following a few Chips Ahoy and some electrolyte-providing Gatorade served at one of the rest stops, I pedaled back into the groove on the road. Shortly thereafter, a 91-year-old man plowed into me from behind going about 50 miles an hour in his old Buick station wagon. A  Buick. Not even a flashy Porsche or Caddy. Nope, a fucking Buick. 

So, following a few weeks in Riverside General Hospital, several surgeries from a severely broken leg and jaw, interacting with a neurologist from South Africa who tested my memory each day (apparently he was memorable), and being home-schooled for several months of my senior year, my dad (who I had never heard cuss a day in my life) decided to make this poster of me.  Shit Happens. It’s important to find humor in almost everything, right?

           Fast forward 31 years, and I came across a letter that I had kept from the adult children of the guy who hit me.  Of course, his kids were in their 70’s when they wrote to me back in the 1980s, but they had sent it when I was still in the hospital and were wishing me fast healing, well wishes, and the subtle “please don’t sue my dad because we’d like something left behind for us” and yadda yadda yadda.  At the time, I couldn’t read this letter because I was busy being in a coma, but that’s beside the point. Yet, as I recently reread this letter, it suddenly occurred to me that if my dad or grandpa had ever caused such a tremendous accident, I would always wonder how that person ended up doing/surviving/getting along in life, or not.  Cue the internet and a weird/crazy/perhaps stupid idea.

After searching the names scribbled on the old, wrinkled letter from 1988, I found someone in the same Lake Perris area with the same last name, so I emailed and asked if they happened to be related to the letter writers. A few days later, I got a response from the grandson of the guy that hit me, son of the letter writers, and he relayed that his parents had both passed away the year before.

Damn! I had just missed my chance to tell them how wonderfully fabulous I had turned out. You’rrrrre welcome. 

He then inquired as to why I was looking for them.

So, as strange as this whole situation was, I explained who I was and that I just wanted the family to know that I came out okay in life.  I didn’t specifically say I could “walk upright” and talk in “complete sentences”, but just “okay” seemed to be enough said. He responded, after getting over the initial shock of simply hearing from me, about how tragic that experience was for their family back when it happened. I paused... Of course, I wanted to reply with, OH, YOU HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA!!!!...  But, that wasn’t the point of me contacting them. Ultimately, he thanked me for communicating with him, and said he’d be sure to let his siblings know about our conversation. 

In (my) life, forgiveness is a difficult thing to give out sometimes, especially when my leg hurts, my jaw is sore, or I can’t remember something. But after 31 years, I found that I had forgiven Pete, the 91-year-old guy who hit me. Making peace with him, through his family, was something I felt I needed to do in order to let it go. I realized I had been holding onto this story for over three decades and it wasn’t necessary; I was ready.  I thanked the grandson for responding to my email and that was the end of that.  

       As my dad once said, “Shit Happens.”  However, I presume it all depends on how you react to it is all that really matters.

Ode to High School Librarians

    It’s National Batman Day today, or at least, that’s what I had hoped when I noticed all three of the high school librarians wearing Batman T-shirts. Or perhaps they didn’t coordinate who had dibs on that particular shirt choice this glorious aloha Friday. 

      Much like the lunch ladies from my days of yore, these librarians enjoy scowling at me. 

No, I’m not making noise. 

No, I’m not drinking liquids in the library. (Not that they can see, at least.)

I’m simply reading (or texting) quietly while I sub for a teacher who seems to have an inordinate number of open prep periods. Like I always say, c’est la vie.  

    The last time I was in this same predicament, I could overhear the three of them scoffing amongst themselves about what a waste of money it was to pay for a full day sub (THATS ME!!) (AND I'M RIGHT HERE!!!) (AND...I CAN HEAR YOU!!!) when there was so much open-period time in a teacher’s schedule. 

    “Oh!” The librarian with blue nylons and open-toed sandals scoffed. “What a waste of resources!”

    “I know! They pay a sub for the WHOLE day,” responded the male librarian that pranced around while grasping the remote control to the library’s only smart board that he controlled. “And she’s just sitting there doing nothing!”

(Again, I CAN HEAR YOU!!!!)

     All I’d like to do, besides punch each of them in the face, is tell them that I’m reading quietly about the development of ENSO-which I’d explain (using finger quotes) is an “acronym” for “El Niño and the Southern Oscillation” phenomenon-which I don’t think is a GAWD DAMN WASTE OF TIME!! 

Then I’d tell them it’s not my fault the schedule is the way it is, and perhaps they should submit a formal complaint with the administration about this. With library letterhead, of course. 

And finally, I’d end my response with, “And by the way, you’re all wearing the same fucking Batman shirt!” BABAMMMM!!

    Initially, they’d all gasp and look amongst each other’s wardrobe choices since they strangely hadn’t noticed, and then start clucking like a bunch of hens who got their feathers ruffled by an unexpected mongoose stealing their eggs. Eventually, they’d laugh at wearing the same Batman shirt on the same day, omg! 

     But by that time, I’ve departed the library to walk around and find a new place to settle in before teaching a class. At some point. Hopefully. 😂

My Uncle Had Blue Eggs

Uncle Al.

Of course he had blue eggs.  They kind of went with everything else in his colorful life.

I wrote this today after noticing all the treasured "artifacts" in my home that I received from Allen's house many months ago.  This morning, I finally unpacked all his fancy silver utensils and made the decision to just use the damn things rather than wait for a "special occasion" to arrive.  EVERYDAY is a special occasion, Gawd Dammit!!  While I was taking the shiny, antique goods out from their fancy fabric carriages, I fanned them all out on the quilt his friend Charlie had constructed that used all of Allen's ties as a sunlike design in the center.  Allen is everywhere.

I was always fascinated with Uncle Al, and his partner, Al.  They were always a magical couple, but not always available, so it was a special occasion to see them.  We called them Al and Al, which made me giggle at times as a kid from the coincidental name matching.

Uncle Al was a painter, a botanical artist, and quite a collector, as I discovered after he passed away.  He had graduated from UCLA and later lived in West Hollywood with his partner for decades.  His house was like a museum full of abstract statues and cool art on the walls.  Vines covered many outside walls of his home, and he always had a German Shepard that was brilliantly trained to behave and always be by his side.  I'm sure his dog even did the dishes when we weren't around.

After his partner died of cancer in the 80s, Uncle Al eventually moved up to the Guerneville area in northern California.  His home was in a reclusive Occidental forest, and he began managing a "Food For Thought" antique store for years.  He made lots of interesting friends, creatively stayed busy, rode motorcycles, and went everywhere with his dedicated dog (except maybe on the motorcycle).

Allen died unexpectedly while walking his dogs on Dillon's Beach by his home near Bodega Bay.  The shock of his death is still hard to grasp as I write this almost two years later.  In trying to organize his estate, I travelled up to his house several times with my brother and dad.  Each time, we discovered so many amazing pieces about Allen as we went through all of his belongings.  One evening, as we paged through all the hundreds of amazing books he had, we found so many cards he had used as bookmarks that kind of told a story.  Each card had a thank you note written to Allen for  something he had done for or with another.  Of course, we had no idea who any of these cards were from, but it was really special to see how many people loved Allen.

As exhausting as it was, we discovered things like his partner's Eagle Scout certificate and a trunk full of his dissertation papers (which, at least, I thought was cool).  We also came across many costumes for the parties he attended, boxes full of random things for art projects he had intended to make in the future, letters from family members, including one from me back when I was in college.  He kept everything.

We made trip after trip donating so many items valued much more than what they would be sold for, but we had no idea what to do with anything.  I would say, after all was said and done, we took over 15-18 truckloads of really nice items to the thrift stores or consignment stores.  On one donation trip, the back of our truck was full of really great books.  FULL.  And while we were waiting for the local Occidental library to open and take our donation, we walked over to have breakfast, and secretly hoped that someone would steal all the books out of the truck while it was unsupervised.  Alas, no such luck, so the library scored big that day.  On another trip, we discovered that because of the amount of donations coming in due to the Santa Rosa fires, many places didn't have room to take our items.  Nothing like driving around an unfamiliar city with several trucks overloaded with furniture, clothes, statues, decorative gourds, and everything else while looking for a place that would take these donations.  Hence the beer breaks in the afternoon.

During our work at his home, the time the 3 of us spent was really bonding. We'd arrive, look around and all defeatedly say, "It doesn't look like we've done anything from the last time we were here."
There was just so much stuff!   We worked so hard together and had extensive conversations about life and all our experiences together and separately.  Each morning we would get up, make a plan for that day, and get to work.  During one trip, after meeting with realtors, we decided we should freshen up the yellowed paint in the main room, and as we started moving furniture we discovered that when Allen had painted years ago, he decided to paint AROUND some of his larger pieces of furniture.  Well, he did live alone, so we tried to give him a pass, but it was just one of the many crazy things we discovered as we went through his home, file by file, piece by piece, and hour by hour.  We'd work all day, stop for lunch breaks and beer breaks in the evening, and then work well into the night each day that we were there.

So how do the blue eggs tie in?  Well, on his 6 acres, he had the coolest chicken coop I'd ever seen.  And inside this coop, were many of the fluffiest chickens I had ever seen.  These chickens laid eggs that were sort of a teal blue with a cool pinkish color on the inside.  They were fascinating. I had remembered visiting Uncle Al with my husband on a road trip several years back, and I saw these blue eggs in a basket.  I had thought to myself, Huh. Is Uncle Al so bored that he's dying his chicken eggs?  Until he clarified that that's how they looked from whatever kind of chickens he had.

Whew!  I thought, and How cool!

Alas, the man with blue eggs, the uncle who always had a toothy smile for me, and the man with more vases and decorative wood boxes than anyone I know, is truly missed.  Aside from the beautiful quilt from Charlie, the memories spent in his home with my family, and all the knick knacks I have around the house now, his memory lives on in my heart.

Building Bridges

I was a teacher for 19 ½  years. So far. The half year piece was not as scandalous as it may sound.  I know a few of you are thinking, Nineteen and A HALF????  WHY ONLY HALF??? Did she get fired?  Did she get caught sniffing rubber cement in the teacher’s lounge when she thought no one was looking??  WHAT HAPPENED???

Sorry, no.  As much as I enjoy rubber cement (like anyone else), the ½ year  was simply a long-term sub job that was counted as part of my “career” years.  So let’s just move on, shall we.

During my final year of teaching elementary school before moving up to what I like to call “The Land of the Lost,” aka middle school, I taught a fourth and fifth grade combination class.  The prior three years, I had taught fourth grade and was permitted to hand-pick the fifth graders for my combo class as an incentive to teach this mixture of grade levels for the first time. As the year progressed, I found myself just loving this class.  They were hard workers, they wanted to please, and they were ready to learn.  Oooh la la! Imagine that!!! It’s a teacher’s paradise to have all, or let’s be honest, most, kids willing and able to participate in the classroom learning experience.  All with a #2 pencil and a smile ready to go each and every single day.

But first, a little background for that year...I had spent the entire summer planning all these cool activities that overlapped fourth and fifth grade standards so that I would still be providing a quality education for all these kids, regardless of what grade they were in.  I bought books, I met with other teachers, and I had the entire year mapped out. My lesson plan book was looking better than an extra cheesy vegetarian pizza following a New Year’s Resolution gone bad.

That was until school began, when the principal called me into her office and insisted I taught each group separately.  COMPLETELY SEPARATELY!!!

All I could think was, How the fuck am I supposed to do that??? Yet, I politely responded, “But I overlapped all the standards..”

“COMPLETELY SEPARATELY!!!” she said, a little insistently, hence the caps.

“But at least look at my lesson plans here…” I tried sliding them towards her.

“COMPLETELY SEPARATELY!!!” and her door shut with a slam; a slam that had a soft close feature in order to not regularly bring attention to herself.

Sigh.

So I set up my classroom with two separate seating arrangements, the fourth grade set facing one white board, and the fifth grade set facing another.  As the year warmed up, I taught these glorious cherubs their daily routine. Fourth graders warmed up doing THIS, while I taught the fifth graders something about THAT! Then we would rotate all day long as I ran from one side of the room to the other, throwing fairy dust all along the way.

After a few months, I noticed the fourth graders were so intrigued by everything I was instructing the fifth graders with, that at times one of them would even raise their hand and ask a question about the math concept I was teaching.  I could see them secretly taking notes on the ideas I was presenting in hopes that I wouldn’t remind them to get back to their fourth grade work.

Until one day.

A couple of the younger students pulled me aside and said, “Miss Chivens, when are we gonna get to do stuff with the fifth graders??”

“Hmmm,” I paused for dramatic effect and looked around the classroom. “You think you could handle working with the older kids? I mean, those fifth graders might be tough on you guys,” I responded, knowing the fifth graders would love it, too.

Both of them shouted,”YES!!! We are ready!! This fourth grade stuff is bo-ring!”

And that’s when I decided to begin blending MY way of teaching that I had anticipated and planned for all summer long with the COMPLETELY SEPARATELY!!! kind of teaching that was...requested.  

Hooray!!!  Let the (standards-based) games begin!!!!!!

So we continued with our daily routines, I tra-la-lahd back and forth and I slowly began putting my plan together.  The introduction of the initial group activity was like announcing the Golden Globes “Best Picture” at the end of a late night.

“Okay Guys and Dolls!” I began, “Today we are going to do something totally different.”  I could feel the energy in the room change from gray to bright poppy orange with the students squirreling in their seats.  Today we are going to start something called Literature Circles.

The class gasped.

“You will be working in groups of five while reading a book together and completing different response jobs each day as you read, which we will discuss later.”

Several hands darted up.  I called on a fourth grader, “But Miss Chivens, there aren’t enough fourth graders to make even-numbered groups of five.”

“I know!” I agreed. “So that means you will be working in groups with...both fourth AND fifth graders!”  I felt like Oprah giving away prizes under their seats.

Another gasp from the class.  They cheered as if they had just had their names called on The Price is Right, and I began introducing the books they would get to choose from, which would direct which group they would work with for the next three weeks.  The following day, after tallying their choices and making their groups, I posted their names with the book they were to read, and they quickly moved into their new Literature Circle groups. It was at this juncture that I knew combining at least certain activities would cause them to connect with each other in a way that the other methodology was not allowing up to this point in the year. Watching them read together each day and then sharing their “Job” for that day with their group was such a fantastic activity to observe.  TOGETHER.

The Literature Circles went smoothly, the students thrived, and I was on to my next group activity. Unfortunately, Science and Math have never been my favorite subjects, so I searched for activities that would not only keep me interested in what I was teaching, but also shine brighter light onto some science and math for my students.

 

Cue...the snails.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” I began.  “Today you will begin gathering materials you will need for the next several weeks.”

The seat-wiggling anticipation began, again.  Their eyes started widening as if their roller coaster was about to drop. They looked at each other as if they were all about to explode with joy.

“You will need a little terrarium that you can easily carry like a lunch pail,”  I began. “Oh, and you’ll all need to bring in two snails each.”

This time, I could hear prolonged gasping, and gagging, by some.

“Whaaaaat??? Snails????” they shouted in unison.

“Yes! We are going to do some research on snails for a little life science, and we will also be participating in some Snail Olympics where you will measure distances traveled (or slimed) using the metric system.”

“Eeewwww,” some moaned.

“YES!” others shouted, and the games began.

As the week moved on, the snails arrived and received names, folders were handed out with activities of distance racing, obstacle course data, scientific data sheets about a snail’s life, habitat, kingdom, class, phylum, you know...fucking SCIENCE!!!  The races were measured, the obstacle courses were developed and tried, and the science had begun.

Race day was the best!  In groups, students had to place their snails on the whiteboard by the starting line I had drawn that morning.  

I would start the clock, “On your mark!  Get set!! Go!!!” And the kids would cheer each other and their snails on to what amounted to a little slime to measure on the whiteboard after a five minute race. They’d write their metric system measurements on their statistic log, and the next round would begin.  I was never questioned by my students that year about when they would ever use this information in real life. After several weeks, the snails were released back into the wild, our hands were washed, and we returned back to our differentiated instruction of fourth and fifth grade standards.

In the meantime, I happened to be the host of the school talent show, and since I had to run the entire try-outs, rehearsals and show hosting, I decided to put my class in the show.  Why the fuck not, right?? So I taught them a goofy dance routine to “Safety Dance” by Men Without Hats, and these kids got their groove on while I took care of talent show business on the stage and behind the scenes.

Several months later, spring had sprung and the school year was coming to a close.  Our class had been making excellent progress in their grade levels, yet we hadn’t done any group activities for awhile.  I felt as though being a student in a combination class had its challenges, but it also had its benefits. They got to work with peers of different ages, they were exposed to new or higher level curriculum, they perhaps reviewed ideas to reinforce what they had previously learned, and yes, they earned a front row seat to observe a teacher trying to figure out the best way to manage two different grade levels all year long.  You’re welcome.

Our final activity arrived the last month of school. I had come across a bridge building activity in all my searching, and believed it would be a perfect way to end the year.

I began, “For our last group activity of the year, we will be building bridges, like we have been doing together all year long. In your groups, you will need to fill the following jobs,” and I directed them to one of the whiteboards that read:

-Architect

-Contractor

-Accountant

-Secretary

-Foreman (or Forewoman)

“In your groups you will be provided with a set amount of money and your goal is to build the strongest bridge,” I paused, “out of toothpicks. At the end of this unit, we will have a contest to see which bridge will hold the most weight before breaking.”

The class seemed excited and I placed them in their assigned groups. (I did need to balance the group dynamics according to skill level and personality for this particular activity.)

Over the next several weeks, students were presented with pictures of different kinds of bridges like the Golden Gate Bridge and the Brooklyn Bridge. We discussed features that made bridges strong, or what caused them to fall at times. I was even able to find a guest speaker to come in and discuss the engineering that was involved with the development of a bridge.

As the building progressed, students had to purchase their supplies from the shop I set up called “Jools Tools” where they could buy bulk supplies of toothpicks and glue that was served using the snack cups you might find at Costco with free nuts in them. Some groups would buy too much glue, some started running out of money, and some groups were juuuuust right. I encouraged the Forepeople to make sure their Accountants were tracking their money, Secretaries were keeping track of supplies, and Architects and Contractors were working well together in developing their bridge.

The day finally arrived for the bridge breaking contest. We had extended invitations to parents and the principal so they could see how hard these students had worked. TOGETHER.

Everyone gathered around to look at all the bridges. The students glowed with anticipation and confidence that their bridge would be the strongest winner. And we began the contest, taking volunteers.

At first, all I could get were looks that said, “Oh hell no!” Until one group finally stepped up. They brought their bridge to the center of our circle and I began placing small items on their bridge. (I didn’t want everyone’s bridge to shatter first thing, so I began with a list of items such as a pencil, a box of crayons, a paperback book, and items that gradually got heavier.)

Everyone seemed to cheer for each other’s group, and we all noted how strong some group’s bridges were, and some group’s weren’t. The conversations, the banter, and even the insight some students reflected aloud about the bridge’s fidelity was really inspiring.

A few bridges maintained the weight of several hardback books along with all the other supplies that led up to this. While other bridges came crashing down immediately after a box of crayons was placed on top. Laughter was heard and frustrations were seen.  It was really impressive to see how strong some of these bridges had become.

Following the activity, some of the parents commented about how much their kid had enjoyed making this project. Then the principal noted to the class how proud she was of their collaboration and determination to build a quality bridge in their group. The kids beamed with pride.

So the year finally came to a close, and I wrote a letter to each student about how proud I was of them, and how hard they worked that year, both together and individually.  Likewise, many of them wrote the same kind of letter to me when they threw me a surprise party for my 30th birthday one day at school. Parents showed up with homemade treats, streamers were all over the room, and letters and poems were written and read aloud to the class before gifting them to me.  I even shed a tear or two. This was truly an amazing way to end the year with this class, especially since I had decided to move up to the Land of the Lost the following year. It proved to me that sometimes it’s just better to do what you know and feel is best, and try connecting people together in ways they don’t even realize at the time.

**No snails were harmed during the aforementioned activities.

A Plastic Bag Hoar(der)...

Yeah, so, after decades of living on my own and trying to stay as decluttered as possible, at least to the visiting eyes perspective,  I discovered something interesting about myself as of last night.  I found myself reorganizing my fairly new kitchen to find just the right spot for all my acquired, must-have items, like my Jack Lalanne juicer or my rice cooker.  In doing so, I kept trying to figure out the best location for the basic kitchen towels and cloth napkins we always use.

Nope, not the 2 huge drawers full of Tupperware/Gladware/Snapware/WhatthefuckdoIhaveallthiswarefor, and not the drawer with all the possible utensils I may need in the future when I roll my sushi or gage the temperature of all those turkeys I cook.  WHERE the heck do I put my towels and napkins???? I mean really, this is a big decision since we always use these items, so they need to be accessible, not merely placed in the hutch by the front door just because its drawers are empty.
So while I'm spinning around the room considering my limited options, I spot a drawer located directly next to the sink. Perfect!

I open the drawer and out explodes all these plastic bags like those old snake-in-a-can pranks that our favorite uncle used to give us.  I think to myself, Oh, that's where I keep all the bags I try re-using so I can do my part in recycling, and then I shut the drawer.

As I walk away, I stop and think, What the fuck am I wasting an entire brand new kitchen drawer for old, gross, "Oh, I can use this again" plastic bags that keep compounding into a huge mass of plastic????  (Apparently I don't re-use these bags as quickly as I add to them.)

At this point, I suddenly have a revelation about how I've always tried re-using everything I could in order to help alleviate Global Warming.  Although, I have no idea how any of that is connected, but then flashback to everywhere I've lived and how I've always had a wasted kitchen drawer exploding with used plastic bags.
Then I double flashedback to one time I was moving and my mother-in-law was helping us.  She opened that particular drawer and asked, "Geez!  Why do you have so many plastic bags??"
I responded as politely as I could, "So I can 're-use' them!" And then I added the silent DUH as I continued packing all those plastic bags to be re-used at our new home.

Oh my gosh...I thought.  I-am-a-plastic-bag-hoar-der!

So once I decided to accept this trait, (acceptance is the first step) (and only taking about 30 years to realize) the freedom I felt from taking those bags out and smoothly sliding my cloth napkins (used to totally stop Global Warming) and kitchen towels into the drawer was absolutely amazing.

So now, where do I put all these gawd damn plastic bags???

Blog-o-licious

     When I first started writing this blog, I regularly started looking at how many people were taking a looksy at my writing.  Much like people do when they post a picture of their food or their own face on Facebook and Instagram. Yes, this is a self-centered, egocentric trait many people show these days, including myself, so let's just move on. 

     Seeing at least some traffic on my page, I thought, Cool!  A few here and there, but at least SOME.  Until I realized that every time I logged in, it counted me as a view.  AGHHHHH!!  A day in the life of Julie...

    Well, acceptance is the first step, I guess, so on I go to re-read my own writing and boost my own self-confidence.  :)  

Hey Hey! It's the Kool Aid Guy!!

       As Hurricane Lane made its way to the Hawaiian Islands like an angry, yet exhausted snail, the local news was actively reminding us how to prepare for the worst. The screen projected the crowds heading to Costco in order to load up on the recommended two-week supply of possible provisions needed.
     Upon looking a little more closely at the tv, I noticed the guy they were filming inside the warehouse was loading his cart up with bulk supplies of Kool Aid, a HUGE box of the fruity powder mix in his cart while apparently preparing for a hurricane.  He did slightly resemble Jim Jones, but I'm fairly certain he died in the late 70's, so I digress.
     Now, there's a lot of things I don't understand about people, but I just couldn't grasp his decision-making skills when planning for survival.  Or perhaps I just haven't given Kool Aid a fair chance, but I couldn't stop laughing at even just the news reporter's decision to use that clip to help people prepare for the worst.