FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL, PART II

As we drove off campus, leaving our first-born daughter to "fly" on her own, a new chapter opened on the home front. The Scripture verse, "The last shall be first," springs to mind. 

The youngest daughter for the first time in her life-- for more than a few days anyway--had the parents all to herself. Oh, she relished this new position.

It was discussed even as we drove away. “I have you all to myself. I'm going to love this, I think," I remember hearing her say. 

It was her senior year of high school. We were all aware -- two of us more than the third-- that this was a year-- a whole year--but only one.  We would make the most of it.

Not that I believed we had neglected our third born-- certainly not!   As the youngest she had always enjoyed a certain amount of deference. Ask our son: many evenings as he endeavored rather patiently to share something of his day, he endured and indulged the youngest-- putting in her "two cents"-- no matter it was not yet her turn.

But in this the glorious senior year, she was an only child. She sat at the head of the table in our dining room, parents on either side. That way she could see us both and "hold court" as it were. She had a captive audience night after night and no one with whom to share the "microphone."

We got to listen-- not that it was a chore, not at all. We knew she would be in a new position at school as well, having had her sister with her in high school every day the preceding two years, she now drove to school alone, drove home alone, and did not have her sister or her usual group of friends to chat with at lunch.

Nearly all of her close friends had been seniors, who were now freshmen in college. It seemed not only did her sister "go off to college and leave her behind," she “took all her best friends away, too."

So, how to manage this year of transition?  She told me at some point: “I knew I would miss her, miss them. So I filled my schedule with lots of demanding things, so I would be too busy to miss them...much." 

President of the National Honor Society;  Executive President of the Student Council;  female lead of the high school production of  "Disney's High School Musical";   First Chair clarinet in the symphonic band;  Section Leader in the Marching Band--there is more, but  you get the idea. (I am not revealing secrets. I am sure if you Google her, this is researchable information.)

These are just examples of how she filled her life and her schedule. Managing missing loved ones has-- or can have --productive advantages, as well as building character.

During her senior year we watched as a family the shows she wanted to watch. “Gilmore Girls” was still in production and when the weekly shows would air, the three of us sat on the sofa to watch, with her in the middle.

I got the opportunity to see through her eyes and her character favorites how she saw herself.  It was a good thing.  She had been a little more inscrutable than the other two. I welcomed this insight into her self image and her thought process.

That was the first year I ever watched all the broadcast NFL games. Sunday, Monday and Thursday nights we watched football.

Let me say, basketball had been my favorite spectator sport from high school. In college, the games were for socializing with friends. It was great when we won—awful when we lost, but I did not really understand the game, could not follow the plays and honestly—I did not care that much.

But that year, she predicted early in the season who would win—the Indianapolis Colts. She had her favorite quarterback and this was her team. I never even asked her why she favored them, but we as a little family followed them that year.

I learned more about football and actually developed a love of the game—which completely surprised me. She had been right: the Colts won the Super Bowl.  We having followed their whole season felt like participants in their victory. It is rather nice isn’t it, to be right? She thought so.

All the activities meant that the time seemed to streak by. All of a sudden, it was graduation time. The summer sped by even faster as she worked two summer jobs. Then, it was time (I now know) for the last back-to-school shopping trips of my career.

Having done this a few times, she knew the drill. She always knew her own mind anyway—her way of doing things, her organization method. She had thought these things through.

The drive to college—same college as her sister, though decided independent of that—was a mere ninety minutes. Normally, that allowed time for some conversation. I don’t recall what it was about, only that there was less talk and it was over too soon.

Up the stairs, carrying loads neatly divided in clear plastic containers, categorized by location for use. This time having learned from the others, clothes came on hangers and went straight into the closet. This time we already had the cleaning products and supplies and the risers for the bed—no need for side trips to obtain these.

She had everything she needed.  All was in order-- in place, in no time, it seemed.  I am sure this was the quickest unpack-the-car-organize-the-room transition we had accomplished. 

Then, it was time to go.  After lingering embraces and waves, we drove away and she went off to meet new friends of her own.

So, having done this twice before, was it still heart-wrenching and filled with mixed emotions? Absolutely.

On the one hand, we had had the best year of our three lives. We had spent a lot of time: talking, being team members and audience members and occasionally comforters—but always supporters.

On the other hand, this was the culmination of twenty-three years of investing one’s life into the projects of one’s dreams—times three—and the work was all done. Having put in all the ingredients, in the right amounts, in the right order, and according to best values and standards and directions, it was time to put the cake in the oven…and wait for the results.  There was literally nothing else to do.

So we took a deep breath, drove away with only a few tears-- and went on a Caribbean vacation. 

FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL

FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL

The discussion on Morning Joe drew me in this morning. I was writing and drinking coffee, half listening when I heard Joe lamenting about the anguish of dropping kids off at school. At least that was what I assumed the conversation to be about. As is my wont, I muttered my disagreement. " For heaven's sake Joe, where are you dropping them off, federal prison?"

Then, I heard the rest of the story. Chris Matthews spoke of how he felt when he dropped his youngest off...at college. My eyes filled with tears.

I can remember the first day at college for each of our three millenials.  Thinking of those first days fills me with nostalgia, and brimming eyes, warm feelings as well as pride and great joy: truly a mixture of emotions.

With our firstborn, a son, I had two opportunities “to practice” letting go before college drop off day. One chance came during a  month- long summer opera camp on a college campus 170 miles from home. The other practice “test” occurred the following summer when he attended a marine science camp an hour away from home. Our daughters say that the month of the marine camp, every time I walked past his room, I cried. It's probably quite true. 

When he went to college,  he filled his Mitsubishi with lots of his "stuff"; we filled our SUV with even more. They had us park it seemed a block away and did they have carts to help carry all the stuff? I don't remember that. There were many trips to the cars and a walk up to the second floor.

It was a very nice new building, a learning community where faculty lived in the same building with the students. They had seminar classes in the building where they lived and if the students chose to, they could  attend wearing their  pajamas!

He allowed me to set up his bed-- I wanted to do that. He and his dad set up the wire shelving which held his computer, printer, monitor, sound system, TV, phone.

( I'm pretty sure this was before everyone had cell phones.)

Then, he was ready for us to leave...and after tearful goodbyes and one more hug...a couple of times,  his father  led me by the hand to our car and we drove away. I was leaving my heart behind.

You might think that you get better at this. I did not.

Our first born daughter, adventurer that she is, did not opt for "normal" freshman orientation. No;  she chose the week of camping and bonding with faculty and other freshmen for a week called Eagle Adventure.

Not having been an outdoor girl myself, I was skeptical to say the least, but I kept my doubts to myself. They were, after all,  my doubts-- no reason to share them with our determined and fearless explorer. 

We arrived at dorm check-in at the appointed time. The camper adventurers arrived 2 hours later...covered with mud and sweat and smelling not so great.

We got the opportunity to wait, as they ate pizza and were debriefed about their reactions and impressions, what they had learned about themselves through this experience.

Filled with nervous energy and unable to do nothing, I made her bed, set up her sleeping space and we all unloaded her stuff into her room. It was all set up, perhaps not exactly to her liking, but she was spared the third floor walk up with each load.

When she finally detached from them and arrived at her new room, her face shone – despite the dust and sweat-- with exhilaration and exultation. Victorious, she was ready to conquer,  and she did -- the rest of her college career.

She was immediately ready to send us on our way, so she could shower change and get on with college freshman life. I tried not to take it personally-- I know it was not, personal, I mean -- and I had gotten to experience that sense of " mission accomplished dismissal" before... many times.

When I dropped them off at ...sleep away camp, birthday sleep-overs, choir trips, and with our first born... even at Montessori school!  

We had gone to inquire about his attending a particular Montessori school; we never even got to audition a second selection.   He loved it on visiting day.

He was forlorn at the prospect of leaving when the brief visit was over. He was unwilling to wait till the fall. He began attending the very next day. And, when I dropped him off-- no teary good bye from him, no sir!

It was, "Bye mom. See you later. And, he was off!

Next time: Part II

POST HIGH SCHOOL ADULTS: WHOSE EDUCATION IS IT ANYWAY?

Parents mortgaging their homes—borrowing from their own retirement accounts to pay for the post high school education expenses for the post high school adults that they raised?  Preposterous!

As a generation, we Baby Boomers we have different expectations and experiences than do many young post high school adults today. Some joined the military to fight for our country and you can believe that facing battle, seeing your friends killed, and having to kill our enemies, these young men and women grew up in a hurry. Some boomers got married right out of high school and had adult responsibilities at age 18. 

They did not ask their parents for mortgage money or college education money. Do you know how they paid for college? THEY WORKED! They themselves worked --to pay for their own educations!

 Paying your own way is one opportunity to make wise choices. It is absolutely a sign of, a prerogative of, privilege of and a RESPONSIBILITY OF a post high school adult.

Ever take a five-year-old to a store? They want everything that they see.

Ever take them with their own money, say from a cash birthday gift?

 All of a sudden—they are interested in details, weighing the appeal of this toy vs. that one. In other words, they are prepared to make carefully thought out decisions that they weigh very carefully… when it is their money!

So it can be and should be with post high school adults. If a college education is what they want – it is THEIR responsibility to pay for it. 
When they have that responsibility they, like the 5-year-old with his birthday money, are going to check things out-- very carefully.  How much do they really need that new apartment/car/stereo/outfit-- if they have to work to pay for it themselves? 

If you parents are writing the check, whatever they want at that moment is a vital necessity:  it is essential. If they are writing their own check, maybe the item can wait.

Post High School Adults—that really needs to be the new phrase  to put the right “em-PHA-sis  the right sy-LAB-able”—as the Austin Powers’ character said in that zany movie with Gwyneth Paltrow as a flight attendant.  We as a society have lost our minds and our perspectives in some areas, and this is absolutely one of those. We have begun to prolong “adolescence” to the point that we may need to send along diapers in the college back pack-- that we pack for them!

Where to begin? You begin wherever you are.

If they are entering high school that is a very good time to have a sit-down face-to-face heart-to-heart talk.

“Listen, Michael or Michelle, mom and dad need to tell you something very important and very serious.

In four years you will graduate  from high school and you will be an adult. You will need to make important decisions that will affect you for the rest of your life.

“In fact the first day you set foot in a high school class room are already making life- altering decisions.  What are you in a high school class room for, anyway?

“It is my strong suggestion, son/daughter that you are there to prepare yourself for the work you will do for the next forty years. You are there to make the first decision for yourself, for your future: will you go to college-- or not?”

Yes, that is still a decision;  and too many people blow right past it --assuming that college is necessarily for everyone—which it is not.

I am not one of these advocates of the so-called self made man who dropped out and founded a Google-like mega company and made more money that Bill Gates has given away to his foundation.  No, depending on your family’s values, some type of post high school education is essential-- unless you plan to work three entry level jobs for the rest of your natural life.

But the question still needs to be raised, so that a conscious thoughtful decision is made regarding how much and what kind of post high school education your son or daughter wants to attain for himself/herself.

Assuming for the moment that Michael or Michelle says, “Yes, mom, dad I want a college education.”

“Well, wonderful”, you can then say. “How do you plan to pay for it?”

“I thought you guys would pay for it—you have money.”

“Yes, we have a little money—that we have worked very hard for, over a long period of time. We scrimped and saved so that we will have a decent retirement. The money that we have for our retirement is ours.

We will need it to pay for long term care insurance, perhaps a nursing home or assisted living should the need arise. We do not have any money laying around to SPARE to give away to anyone…including you dear son or daughter.”

“Mom/Dad what are you saying? I can’t go to college?”

“No, we are not saying that. What we said is that we are not paying for it.”

“I’m just a kid—how can I pay for it?”

Now you are asking the right question. And there are good answers for that.

I will give you the punch line here: our son and daughters, the three young Hunte

who are 20-somethings now have all graduated college with zero college debt.

ZERO COLLEGE DEBT.   If you care to know how that was accomplished, ask. 

THE SCARY TRUTH ABOUT CHURCH AT AGE 5

        Church with Granddaddy Bill was interesting and a little scary. I liked the music and the singing.  I did not mind the preaching.  Reverend Lett would always call me “baby” and “sugar” and I loved him for that.

He would say, “Come on down here, Sugar, and put your money in the collection.”  I would stand erect and march down the red carpeted aisle to the table placed in front of the pulpit-- but on the floor level, not on the stage.

I’d put my dime on the table. I was not the only one to put my money in the collection like that: that was the way it was done. Everyone in the church—so it seemed to me—got up walked down the aisle and put their money on that table:  coins and paper money. (I realize now, that checks were not used and of credit cards were not even thought of!)  Bill and his helpers would count all the money right there in front of everybody.

The organist would be playing a certain style of music during this time. The tempo was upbeat and lively and it lent itself to marching down the aisle. This aisle was actually down—the back of the church was way higher than the floor area in front of the pulpit. Yes, it was the way theaters used to be-- before you had to take stairs to the higher elevations in the rear of the auditorium, as you do now.  The main floor of the church was tilted up in the back, down in the front!

So, I’d walk down a gentle slope to the lower elevation at the front--no stairs needed. Then, after placing my dime on the table I would march past the table, and then and back up the other aisle. It was, I guess, a parade of sorts. At age five, I loved that.

The scary part came when Reverend Lett would preach. What was scary for me came not from him, but from what would happen in the congregation.  He wore gold-rimmed glasses, a very low haircut and he had a disarming smile. He wore three- piece suits, very often white and all his accessories were white also—sometimes even his tie would be white.

He would start out calmly and speaking in a modulated very smooth, very pleasant voice.  As his sermon progressed, though he began to be more forceful with his words, and his gestures.

 As he raised his voice, it seemed his body temperature would go up too.  As he exhorted the flock about something:  he would really start to sweat!  He would periodically take his out handkerchief and sometimes wipe his forehead. Sometimes he would just blot his face.

The thing is this: that church was one of the few places that I went to in those days that was air-conditioned!  There was always a lovely peaceful shady-feeling-coolness about the sanctuary--no matter how bright and sweltering it was outside.

 This may not be so, but it seemed to me this way: as his volume increased, there would erupt punctuations of “amen” and “hallelujah” from the congregation.  All of a sudden, some woman—I never saw a man do this—a woman would start “shouting”-- literally. 

That’s what it was called. She would raise both arms and seem to rise from the pew then fall back.  She’d do that several times—with her arms in the air the whole time, shouting over and over, “Lord have mercy!”

Two of the white-uniformed, white-gloved ushers armed with paper fans would briskly walk over to her and they both kind of took hold of her arms and patted her arms and fanned her furiously till she settled down.

This stuff scared me to death! Just when the first woman was getting quiet again and looking as if she had swooned, another would start shouting in a different section of the congregation!  The whole thing would start all over again.

There were many of those white-uniformed white-gloved members of the usher board.  They would scramble to do their duty:   to attend the shouter.

After a while with this shouting breaking out in different sections of the church, Reverend Lett’s voice will begin to slow, and to soften.

As he wound down, toward the end, he practically spoke in a calm and gentle whisper.  As he did so, he would begin to smile.  He would wipe his forehead once more; and this time he folded and returned his handkerchief to his pants pocket.

The organist would play a soothing quiet melody, and the whole congregation, it seemed to me, let out a deeply satisfying “sigh”.  Then, church was over.            

REDKEN. FIFTH AVENUE. EXTREME

Redken.  Fifth Avenue. Extreme

When I was born bald, bald was not beautiful. I was not there but it was reported to me that I was bald—and since I had a huge yellow head that was the source of some angst for my beautiful full-head of red curly haired mother.

Later, when I had hair it was not red and it was not curly…in the sense that curly was cute them, like Shirley Temple curly…the curls they named after her.  I was five when she was five. I was cute and she was cute but no one was as cute as Shirley Temple: they made movies about how cute she was.

I guess I rolled off the bassinette competing and feeling less than and therefore I had to do more, be more, know more…in order to earn my “right” to breathe air and take up space on this planet. I don’t think anyone told me that…my excellent deductive reasoning skills figured that out for me… at age five.

Today I spent twenty minutes on my hair. The rest of the week I will spend twenty minutes…total…over six days.

I love my hair today. I have not always loved my hair, but then, I have not always loved a lot that had to do with me. The five decades plus love hate relationship with my hair—relationship with my hair!—is too fluffy for one blog especially today.

But now that I can spend 40 minutes a week and love my curly hair, I want to share what makes me happy today. Redken Fifth Avenue Extreme is the line of hair care—sorry, it is an unpaid commercial endorsement and I am shameless about it! J--that I am using now. It is unbelievably easy three steps two of which occur in the shower. Shampoo. Condition. And after barely toweling dry and finger combing my curls, apply Extreme Anti-Snap. I don’t know what it is nor do I care. It works! And today, my hair makes me happy!

EXTENDING FAMILY

It was a completely ordinary day. I got a manila envelope in the mail—addressed to my office.  That address is still publicly available even though I have not worked there in quite some time.  That was the first mystery.

Inside the envelope was a paperback book. I had not ordered this—the title was unfamiliar. I turned the book over. The author’s photo was strangely familiar. I know I had never seen that face, yet   there was something about that face…

When I opened the front cover there was a letter addressed to me. (Reader, you might want to sit down.) It read:

“I am your father’s son.”

I stared at these words uncomprehendingly. I felt a need to sit down. I read the rest of the letter which was quite brief—several times. There was a name and a number and those words.

Curiosity was perhaps the strongest emotion- if that is an emotion.   I just know I wanted to find out the rest of the story.

It was a Saturday in September and I kept checking my watch and the door as if I were about to go on a blind date. And in a way, perhaps that is an apt description.

You might think that knowing this was to be a first meeting face to face I would have thought of something to say, worthy of a momentous occasion. When the doorbell rang and I answered the door, I looked up. My immortal first words: “Wow! You are tall!”

Since tall people hear this all the time, he absolutely took it in good humor, “Yes, I sure am.” Then he bent down to hug me.

We spent the afternoon and the evening and the next day talking—we had two lifetimes to catch up on.

He looked and felt familiar because he has our father’s build: tall, lean, athletic, graceful. He had Daddy’s mannerisms, too. It was very much like looking at a younger version of Daddy.

He returned for Thanksgiving to meet the nieces and nephew. What a holiday it was! They adored him and he found them fascinating.

People always talk about going home for the holidays—there is no adequate description for doing that for the first time. I have a new to me brother.

August the following year, our sisters had an occasion to arrive in the city where he lived. We met at a museum site, where there were crowds of people. When we all found each other, really, no introductions were needed. They saw it too. It was so good to be there that day for all that open hearted…connecting.

Not only can you go home again, you can go home for the very first time.  As Daddy said to the sons-in-law on meeting them: “I’m Geronimo. Welcome to the tribe!”

You can’t make that kind of thing up!

A TALE OF TWO PANCAKE SUPPERS

I grew up attending Lutheran School from first grade through high school graduation. I was baptized and confirmed in the Lutheran Church. I was a Lutheran. Period. End of story.

Only… I married a non-Lutheran. Beloved is an Anglican from the cradle: he was practically born on the altar.

He broke his arm at age 12 when he fell while painting the ceiling of St. Andrew’s Anglican church where his mother was the pianist-- and the choir (no typo there). During a service, before he could walk he crawled up on the altar. I’m not kidding or exaggerating-- that actually happened.

His father scooped him up and carried him around after that so he would not join/disrupt the altar events. After this incident or because of it, Beloved’s mother believed he would--or she wanted him to-- become a priest.

So I love this man who is not a Lutheran. The minister who married us is the same man who when I was six years old told my aunt that I needed to attend the Lutheran school; I did. It changed my life in wonderful ways for which I will be eternally grateful.

Anyway, this dear man, Rev. Dr. Peter R. Hunt asked me during our premarital counseling what I would do if Beloved wanted me to join his church.

“Well, if anyone will be joining someone else’s church, he

will be joining mine!”  Famous last words!

So, you can see this coming right?

The closest Lutheran church to where we lived would not allow Eyston to take communion because he was not Lutheran. I was offended by that, and the part I don’t get now is why I did not just go to another Lutheran church till I could find one that would let him take communion. But that is not what happened.

At that same time, that we had been ill-treated at our neighborhood Lutheran Church, Beloved’s parents, and his younger brother and sister were all living in our city.

 In fact those two siblings of his and we got married within a year of each other; and we all had kids within 18 months of each other!

Beloved and I started attending the Episcopal church with this whole little family here.  (There was no Anglican church in this city at that time.)

 There was a whole extended family pew thing going on which-- since I had never had that --and desperately had wanted it --growing up, this satisfied a deep need in me to belong to something larger than myself.

When our son David was born and he was baptized at age 3 months, all of a sudden, he and his father were Anglican and I alone was Lutheran. Having grown up in denominationally divided home I did not want that for my kids, so I decided to be received by the Episcopal church. (They did not require anything new of me: my Lutheran baptism and confirmation were accepted.)

For the next 30 years all was well with that arrangement. I will compress the next chapter in this saga but essentially last October I found that something was missing for me and I returned to the Lutheran church.  

I have been attending Lutheran every other Sunday where I want to be; alternate Sundays I have been worshipping beside my husband-- as I have done for 30 years. Talk about being torn. I am torn!

All of that is the background for Tuesday night. There was Shrove Pancake supper at the Lutheran Church starting for members at 5:00 p.m. I had planned to go for a couple of months since it was announced.

Well last week—literally—it was announced that there would be a Pancake supper same night at Beloved’s church—where I have been a member since we formed as an Anglican Church 8 years ago and before that another 9 years  with that same core congregation when we were still in the Episcopal Church. 

I had invited him to join me at the Lutheran Shrove Pancake Supper; but that was not what he wanted. Instead he wanted me to come to his church for pancakes and music.  He plays in the band.  I was torn.  

All this has made my life complicated since October, maybe before then for a little while too. But in October I went to the Lutheran Church again and I knew I was home. I wondered how I could have stayed away so long. But I am back.

And he is not into it. And …yet, I can’t do what I have been doing anymore.

It was never a challenge or struggle till last fall, but it is what it is and I can’t change it. I am praying and journaling taking with my Sponsor and with my new wonderful loving spiritual minister at St. Paul’s and I am trusting that…This, Too Shall Pass.

Oh! What did I do?  I went to both!