A wave to the past

     As they backed out of the driveway and then drove slowly away, I followed, waving constantly until they were out of sight. Just like my grandmother used to do.
 
    When I was a child and  we visited my grandmother, the last sight we had as we left was her following us out of her driveway and down the street, standing there smiling and waving until we turned the corner and the house vanished from sight. In response, all three of us, my brothers and I, would plaster ourselves to the car windows and wave maniacally back as we left her behind.

    So when Pam and Marley left last Sunday night around dark, I found myself on the other side of the equation, following the car down the drive and seeing them off into the night. Just like my grandmother used to do.

     Texas is a long way from Alabama, and so we see the family we left 800 miles away less often than we would like. The time we spend together at Christmas is joyful and triumphant, but much too short. I find myself greedy of my time spent with family seldom seen but constantly in my thoughts. So that's why I found myself eager to follow them out, to get just one more moment spent together.

    But like I suspect my grandmother did, I also want to give them that last contact with me. And for their last memory of our time together this Christmastime to be of me standing there waving them into the night.

    So as we approach the beginning of another year, I find myself wrapped in memories of the past, of being a kid pressed up against the back window of the car, a lump in my throat as I waved goodbye to a little white-haired woman padding down her driveway to make sure that our last vision was of her smile as we turned the corner and disappeared from her life until the next time.

         Absence from whom we love is worse than death
         And frustrates hope severer than despair
                                                   -William Cowper

Those angels

     Some comedians build up an act for most of their lives. Subject material, delivery and timing, all those components have to be crafted and honed for effect. Painstakingly. Deliberately.
 
     Andrew, however, was killin' em by the time he was 5. All the family was accustomed to his droll malapropisms, and every season brought new "Andrew stories". One of my favorites was his rendition of a Christmas hymn, "Angels We Have Heard on High." His phrasing throughout the verse was entirely orthodox, but when he got to the refrain, his spin was pure Andrew. Rather than completing the long "Gloria" with "in excelsis deo" he interpreted it as

  "and it shall be day-o"

     Much to our delight. Of course. That is one of the many Andrew stories that have persisted in the telling again and again throughout the intervening years. Mostly to his annoyance, because what person enjoys hearing about the "adorable" things said while a child? But it is a story I have been remembering all this past week.

    Today is the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. All week long I have been drearily aware of grey skies, foreshortened days, and endless nights. Houston skies have been rainy and cloudy enough, but with my arrival yesterday in Alabama, the oppressive iron-grey sky is overpowering. Listening to Christmas choral music on the trip, I was mindful of "In the Bleak Midwinter"and its description that "earth stood hard as iron." Will winter never end? Will spring ever return? My youngest brother lives in Seattle where it is rainy and overcast most of the year, and where seasonal affective disorder saps energy and will and social interaction. Little wonder that it does, when even a week of dark skies have made me think darkly.

     So little wonder that Christmas is such a willfully joyous season. In that bleak midwinter, in the midst of shrinking days and oppressive nights, comes the greatest of miracles. The miracle of the incarnation of God into man. The miracles of love and fellowship shared between strangers. Whether you are deeply religious or simply secular, the season of Christmas promises renewal and vigor and community. And it delivers.
     So, here in the midst of family, in the preparation for Christmas, renewing relationships with those separated from me by 800 miles, I am hopeful and joyous and expectant. The promise of Advent brings light and life even with lowering skies and thunderclouds above us.

     Andrew was right.

     Angels we have heard on high
     Sweetly singing o'er the plains
     And the mountains in reply
     Echoing their joyous strains

     Gloria.........
     and it shall be day-o...

   
     Merry Christmas to everyone, and God bless us, every one.

     

THE can make a difference

     Last semester, in the course of a group project, I met with several classmates to hash out research responsibilities. Setting a meeting for the next go-round, we tried to pinpoint the geographic center of our group to ensure travel would be fair to everyone. That's how I found out that one of the girls in the group lives in one of my bus route neighborhoods.

     Trying to locate her, I asked her how close she lives to the house with the car that sports the neon pink rims. "That's my house!" was the answer, making me awfully thankful I hadn't asked how close she lives to the house with the car that sports hideous pink rims... Realizing that her house is right in the middle of several of my elementary riders, I dropped a couple of names and asked if she knew the kids. Answering quickly, she brightened and identified one of them as her nephew, and a moment later, did a double take and looked closely at me.

     "Oh, you're Mr. Barber? THE Mr. Barber?" 

      I like the sound of that. Not just Mr. Barber, but THE Mr. Barber. 

      That's not the only time I have been glad to hear that little article THE appended to my name. A couple of days ago, one of the Jr. High kids was asking me how I came to drive a bus, and asked how I could be content with being "just a bus driver." While I was puzzling over a response to that, one of the other kids rejoined that rather than being "just a bus driver", I am "THE bus driver." High praise from a smart-aleck 12 year old.
      When you work with kids, you find that the simplest change can really help them see things a different way. A couple of weeks ago, one of my riders, all charged up on machismo and bravado, declared his intention to learn how to curse people out in all languages to prepare him to defend his honor verbally against anyone. I suggested that he might be better served by instead learning how to say "let's have some cookies" in every language. Since everyone loves cookies, that is a phrase guaranteed to win you friends the world over. So now I have a bunch of them translating cookie-talk into the languages of the world. Khapse (Tibetan butter cookies), anyone? Sometimes you just might want to see things a different way-it would be hard to curse someone out with a mouth full of a buttery cookie, right?

      Over the past year, I have put countless bandaids on hurts both real and imaginary, tied a myriad of shoes, found and returned numerous lunchboxes and binders and phones left in seats, and refereed numberless squabbles and spats. Children are exactly the same as everyone else, they demand to be heard and treated seriously and spoken to by name-and the correct name and pronunciation, too, mind you. Everyone likes to be asked how the day went, or to be congratulated on a particular success or milestone.
     In other words, I feel like I've worked for that little THE that they put before my name....

      But in a deeper sense, I have to be grateful once again for grace, for unearned joy, for  unlooked-for moments of connectedness, for random smiles and happiness. Like anything else in my life, my plans tend to fall to over-planning, to entitled expectation, and to deflated outcomes. Love and grace and art and beauty come all in a rush, subject to God's time rather than to my own, to kairos rather than chronos. It is when I am least expecting it that the moment of glory and thrilling realization alights like a bird in a tree branch.
     I sure wasn't expecting that recognition when my classmate referred to me as THE Mr. Barber.
 
     But it sure felt wonderful.
 
     That is why I gladly roll out of bed bleary-eyed at 5 AM 9 months of the year to go drive a school bus. With no air conditioner.
     Everyone has moments when everything suddenly feels worth it, and it is absolutely critical that I hold onto those memories to sustain me through the broken times when everything goes sour. The day when the Jr. High band students broke their instruments out as we headed out of the school parking lot, and flute and violin and trombone and French horn joined together in an impromptu concert? Yeah, that one will stand out for a loooooong time...

    -Peace,
      THE Mr. Barber

     

The kids are alright

     Seems you can't pick up a paper or turn on the TV without being shaken by the scruff about the current state of affairs: We are going to hell and quickly down a path of selfishness and laziness. The Onion, which gives better news sometimes than true sources, put it best a couple of months ago: Chinese third-graders, it warned, are falling behind American high-schoolers in math and science, and American 14- to 18-year-olds have actually pulled ahead of the the dominant Asian 8-year-olds. The fake article explained that China cannot hope to compete globally if its preteens are only as well-educated as the average American high-schooler.

     So enrolling in the local community college to take some Texas prerequisites in order to start on my next path as a teacher gave me pause. Would I be drowning in the stereotypical sea of lackadaisical whiners and slackers so popular as representative of college students today? Would I be the only person awake in class? The only one bothering to show up, not giving weak excuses as to why not even coming in?
     Well, I am heartened to report that in my neck of the woods, at least, enterprise and ambition and endeavor is alive and kicking. Not only that, but everywhere I looked, all over campus, I saw kids with tattoos and saggy pants and piercings....and book bags and pens and paper and tablets. Even more stunning, they smiled, said hello, opened doors for each other, slowed down in the parking lot to let others pass, asked pointed questions in class, offered to send notes to peers that had missed a class...
   
    Shocking to say, they are JUST LIKE ME AND YOU. Young and old, single traditional students or moms returning to continue college careers interrupted by kids now about to start college themselves, they were just like the rest of us. They all wanted to be there, and to learn, and to move forward to take a place in society or to improve upon current circumstances.

     And the best part of it all? The immigrants, oh thank goodness for the immigrants. Want to feel good about America? Just talk to a recent immigrant from Pakistan or Nigeria or Greece about the opportunities they are pursuing, of the dreams that can be won by focus and education. I met with a study group prior to my last final, and I was the only native-born American in it. A busy Friday night in Houston, with all sorts of entertainment and diversions only a few minutes away, and these serious students met to go over test material, carefully prepared summaries and study guides already researched and annotated.  I tell you, that is precisely the type of person I admire, someone for whom English may not be a primary language but who is dedicated and thorough.
     That night I was the one who felt lazy. With all the natural built-in advantages of language and immersion in our culture, I did not have to work half as hard as someone who has to carry around a dictionary to translate unfamiliar English terms.

    So the next time you hear that the kids today are sorry and lazy, or that immigrants threaten to destroy our way of life, look around instead and make your own decision. You may find, as I did, that everywhere you look are people working hard to get ahead, to advance, and to contribute to society just as past generations have always done. You may find that there are plenty of ambitious students out there just looking for the right opportunity to make an impact on the nation.
 
    This has been quite an education this semester, in more ways than just one. See you in class!

     

Oldest kid in the class

     It's been months since I've posted a blog entry. Really not been active on social media, either. Other than a comment or two on someone else's posts, and the everpresent birthday wishes that Facebook  goads me into sending daily, I have almost dropped off the map. Because for the first time since 1990-yes, 1990-I have been busy busy BUSY-with school.
     In order to move forward on my goal of becoming a Jr. High teacher (no, I've not gone off my rocker in deciding to teach the rowdy bunch, it is actually my preference, based on my actual bus-driving interactions with groups of elementary, junior high, and high school students), I am taking classes at the local community college prior to diving into University of Houston's final lap of teacher training. This semester I took a small load, just three classes, enough to re-introduce myself to the rhythms of note-taking and studying and testing.
     It's been BUSY. Enough, along with my daily bus routes and household chores, to keep me neck-deep in books and study and papers.

     My brother Shawn, who is also in school out in Seattle, can attest there is a world of difference in going to school as an-ahem-scholar of seasoned years. We ain't here to play. Been in the real world for a long time, I have the proof in my experiences that the more education one has, the less apt one is to have to work a physically grueling or low-paying job to make ends meet. I was lucky enough to find, first in the world of restaurants and then in sales, jobs in which my natural organizational abilities, drive to excel, and communication skills would sustain me and make me a marketable "commodity." I am, thankfully and gratefully for the groundwork Stacey and I have been laying all these years, able to pursue my heart's desire.

      It is nice, this time around, to know who I am and specifically where I am going this time around. It is nice to have a lot of experience, to understand how I am most successful and what strategies will get me there. Hence, when I am assigned a paper, I START on it. That day, generally. My research paper due next Thursday? Completed last weekend. My speeches? Written, rehearsed daily for at least a week in advance, and given with only minimal reference to notes because years of  performing scripts and sales presentations taught me how to internalize the information and then deliver it for a more natural flow. Upcoming tests and study guides? Studied daily, to avoid any last-minute cramming and panic.
     It is nice to know how I learn and how to keep the stress at bay.

     What is also nice, though, is to be in school with a huge cross-section of people, more so than I got in my more traditional 4-year-university classes. Houston Community College does have a lot of kids fresh out of high school either taking a 2-year program or preparing to springboard into a 4-year degree somewhere else after getting the core requirements out of the way at a steep bargain. But it also is full of single moms, returning soldiers, and grandmoms returning to academia.
     A good place for a bus driver to start.

      Yes, in most classes, I am the oldest student. Yes, in most classes, the professor will make a culture reference from the 1970s or 1980s and look at me in a moment of generational understanding as some of the 18-year-olds look blank. But I look around me, at the students in the familiar cheap desks, pens busy scratching away on paper, and see in all those faces the same expression: ATTENTION.

      Everyone is there for a reason, to make the next step on the journey toward a personal goal. So, I salute all my colleagues in class, from young to old, all at a different place on the path, but all together for a little while for a common purpose.
      A classroom is a great place to be!

     

A moment of Zen: Walk a mile-or six-in his shoes

     I survived Houston's Ice-Pocalypse just this last week. Friday and then again on Tuesday the temperature plunged from our normal wintry 70 to right below freezing. I think I saw a snowflake mid-afternoon, and a sheet of ice coated my patio furniture. Well, maybe not a sheet of ice, more like a Saran Wrap of ice. Thanks to Stacey, I was comfortably clad in homemade warm socks. And scarf. And sweater. And knit cap. Truth be told, once I got back inside the house, I got mighty warm mighty quickly and stripped off my extra clothes quicker than Miley Cyrus at an awards show.

     But not to worry-cold temperatures correct  themselves quickly here in Hell's Doorstep, and the temperature will be back up to a seasonally appropriate 80 this weekend. So much for my winter adventure.

     My family and friends back in Alabama, however, got smacked with a real winter storm. An unexpected snowstorm. Roads were impassable due to thick ice and hundreds of wrecks. Kids were trapped in schools and thousands spent the night in their classrooms. Parents hiked to daycares for their children. Overwhelmed police and fire and emergency forces were only able to respond to the most dire needs.

     In the middle of this horrendous disaster, miracle stories have abounded;  inspiring miracle after inspiring miracle have amazed and moved and uplifted the country. SUV moms ferrying neighbors and strangers alike home, like the housewife who took carload after carload of stranded families home, more than 100 people in all, until her gas ran out six hours later. Or the fellows in 4-wheel-drives that roamed the streets for two days, pulling cars out of ditches for no fee other than thank yous. Or the diabetic father who wandered down the side of the highway after he was stranded in standstill traffic, helping others to safety until he tumbled into a ravine through lack of insulin and exhaustion disorientation.

      And into the middle of all this chaos and bitter cold and howling snow and cracking ice, all the rage of nature breaking upon an unprepared state unused to more than a dusting of snow, comes the matter-of-fact example of a man who was, he claimed,  simply doing his job.

      The man is a doctor in Birmingham,  Dr. Zenko Hrynkiw. A neurosurgeon. Dr. Zen, as they call him, was at Brookwood Medical Center when a call came in from another hospital. An urgent call for emergency brain surgery. This being 2014, the nearby hospital sent the patient's CT scans to the doctor's phone, and he quickly interpreted the data as showing a 90% chance of death if surgery were not performed soon. The roads were impassable; not only is the exit road from Brookwood  a steep slalom down a mountainside, but numerous wrecks blocking the roadways made all streets clogged and accessible only to motorcycles or riding lawnmowers. Although the other hospital, miles distant, was to try to get someone over to pick him up, it just wasn't going to happen. So he made up his mind, and headed out the door.

      Yep, you guessed it. 

       He walked. 

       Here are some numbers to keep in mind. 6, 12, and 62.
       6 miles between the hospitals. 12 degrees outside. Oh, and 62? That's his age: Dr. Zen is 62.

      Ok, you might guess the rest of the plot, but here is the short treatment:  Dr. Zen walked through the snow and the ice, stopping briefly to thaw out in a stranded ambulance idled on the road, thumbed a ride for the last part of the journey, and arrived at the other hospital hours later. Dr. Zen having been in contact with them,  they were awaiting his arrival for surgery with a prepped operating room. The surgery was accomplished successfully, the patient survived, and Dr. Zen really doesn't get why such fuss is being made over him.

     Here are some of the doctor's words:  "It really wasn't that big of a deal." And "he had a 90 percent chance of dying...if he didn't have surgery he'd be dead, and that's not going to happen on my shift." Even "it was kind of a nice day for a walk".

    

     Sometimes all you can do in the face of astounding catastrophe is to do what you know to do, and to do what you know you must do. Sometimes you just go out the door and down the mountain to the highway to walk a few miles to an emergency brain surgery. Sometimes you let your actions speak more eloquently than any words. Surely more eloquently than my words;  I have none that will  add more grace or majesty to what Dr. Zen himself did by surely and determinedly putting one foot in front of the other, just like he does every other day when the world is not collapsing.

     So before you know a man, walk a mile in his shoes. Or six miles, if you are feeling up to it.

     “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, "Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.” 
― Fred Rogers

       Thanks be to God for the helpers, wherever we may find them!

    

Paying my own way?

     Sometimes you experience milestones that only reveal themselves to you long after, when you sit and remember in the light of subsequent events. Some announce themselves with stereotypical fear and trembling. Some, like this weekend, slip up on you quietly with half-formed thoughts until you come to with a start and realize something....different...just happened.

    Lest I confound even more by mystery, I'll just go ahead and say Andrew picked up the check while we were out at dinner.

   

   Now, this is not a reflection on Andrew's generosity, mind you, he has always been very generous, maybe even the most generous of my kids. No, instead it is a reflection of role reversal, that in this case the typical dynamic of father and son flipped.

    Friday night we were on our own, Sarah and Andrew and I, because Stacey had headed out a couple of days before, the station wagon packed with spinning wheels, for a Spin-In or somesuch in Florida. Andrew and Sarah decided that nothing would be better for Friday night entertainment than to go out to Steak 'n Shake after Andrew got in from work, after his restaurant shift. Although my days of late nights are mostly behind me, when your 16- and 21-year old invite you to hang out at Steak 'n Shake on Friday night at midnight, you go! (Don't know how I stayed up that late-would it be cheating if I snuck in a nap earlier?)

     So that's how I found myself still up past the late news, eating sliders and drinking stickily sweet cherry Coke, last Friday night. I'm pretty sure I didn't yawn obtrusively more than once or maybe a dozen times, even. So we ate and talked and argued and conversed and laughed and joked, shedding the cabin fever of a snow day from school and work earlier in the day.

    Then the waitress dropped the check on the table, and Andrew retrieved it. I pulled my wallet out, and he told me "Dad, I've got this." 

     Maybe he has paid for something before, perhaps I have forgotten other instances, but  that's the way it goes with memory sometimes. Maybe a coffee at Starbucks or a taco at a truck or a burger for lunch. This was different, being more or less a family meal with me AND his sister on the tab. The type of dinner that an adult pays for, not just kids spotting each other lunch.

     Maybe it is a little...different...to have your children pay your way, to reverse the roles to become the provider. I certainly have no objection, and it doesn't diminish me in any way, but it somehow feels-well, momentous. I have a tendency to see pattern and metaphor in everything that happens to me.

     So here I am, beginning with a hamburger and ending with thoughts on the eternal rolling of one generation to the next. 

      I guess this means I better make sure I pick up my mom's tab next time I go out with her.