Jeffrey

Growing Up and Moving On

I sat by myself in my classroom, completely exasperated with all those folks who refused to wear a mask over the last 15 months. Your refusal to acknowledge the shark in the deep end of the pool prolonged the pandemic and changed our way of living.

We didn’t lose as much as a lot of families. Other kids missed proms and graduations and sports seasons. Weddings rescheduled. Funerals isolated. Anniversaries unobserved. We missed a school assembly. It was not the end of the world.

That said, I couldn’t help but succumb to the darkness and the disappointment.

Sophia and the Vienna tribe celebrated the end of their elementary school journey with the 5th grade recognition assembly. We could not attend. No parents. No families. The kids and their teachers. The administration.

My classroom was dark and the door was locked. I cried and cried and cried. Heartbreak may be too dramatic, but it felt a lot like an achy-breaky heart.

I routinely tell Sophia, “remember who you are.”

Vikki says I have a gift for identifying obscure connections between myself and fictional characters.

Probably true.

Take Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, for example. Dumbledore and I think similarly about a great many things. I appreciate his ability to turn a phrase.

As the man said, “being me, has its privileges.”

To borrow a phrase, “Sophia, being you has its privileges.”

Being Vikki’s daughter has its privileges.

Being Jeffrey’s girl has its privileges.

Being Margaret’s grandchild has its privileges.

Being you also comes with enormous responsibility.

The girl is probably weary of hearing my daily proclamations about acting like a lady and speaking kindly and dressing appropriately and on and on and on.

I can’t help myself. I don’t worry about grades or test scores. Behavior and integrity and responsibility and grace and love are everything.

I know she is tired of the sermons and the stories and the expectations. I would be, if I were her.

I watched the Vienna Elementary 5th grade recognition assembly on YouTube. (Thank you to whomever arranged that.)

I was an emotional wreck from the beginning. I saw her walk through the door and tears were rolling.

First thing I noticed, Sophia is tall. I see her every day, so it hadn’t really hit me. Tall youngin’. Dadgum.

White dress. Black sweater. She is beautiful. (You wouldn’t think it to watch her eat tacos, but that’s a work in progress.) She looked every bit the lady and princess she will be.

Individual awards.

The Positive Role Model award for 2021 goes to Sophia Griffin.

I called Vikki. I think all Vikki heard was a blubbering cacophony of snot and tears.

It’s one thing to talk about doing the right thing. Preaching and teaching will only do so much. Guide the horse to water and hope they drink deeply.

It’s something else when the adults who watch and teach and guide and encourage your child recognize the effort and willingness to be a good person.

Responsibility matters.

Kindness counts.

Words are powerful.

Effort makes all the difference.

It wasn’t Jeffrey and Vikki thundering about the virtues of life.

It was the influence of Catherine Davis, Julie Doub, Meghan Wham, Alan Goldenstein, Melissa Safrit, Kristen Trivitte and Latoya Cockerl.

It was Lee Koch and Lisa Davis and Marie Pierce.

It was Shannon Ivester, Hallie Foster, Whitney Warlick, Shaun Howe, Tammy Hancock, Tyler Foster and Jill Daniels.

And, of course, the ever-present light of Ms. Lisa and Emily Roobull-Rewbewl-Ruuboll-Ruebel.

These people celebrated our daughter.

These people recognized that Sophia Griffin is becoming a lady.

These people.

Thank you.

You are loved.

Thank you for loving our daughter.

Thank you for teaching our girl.

We’re ever grateful.

Sophia, what you do matters. Remember who you are. We are proud of you. Well done. We love you.

EOG

God…

As you know, todayeth beginneth the End-Of-Gradeth testing for a great many elementary children and teachers in Winston-Salem.

I don’t care.

I do, but I don’t.

Not really.

OK, maybe a little bit. But, not a lot.

An EOG is a how-you-fared-and-what-you-remembered-and-how-accurately-you-clicked-on-the-right-button-on-a-Chromebook-while-not-using-a-mouse moment on one day of your life.

One moment.

One day.

A lifetime.

Do your best and let it rest.

A perfect score won’t guarantee happiness and contentment and corporate adoration.

A poor showing won’t condemn a child to reliance on government subsidies and a lifetime of shoulda-coulda-woulda regret.

Teachers work, every day.

Teachers teach, every day.

Teachers throw seeds, every day.

Let’s have a little perspective.

If you could…

If you would…

I know you’re busy dealing with the whole Israel and Palestine can’t get along thing.

Black folk and white folk fighting the same fight over and over and over again.

Where to send the sharks when sunburned and overweight people invade the oceans this weekend.

How to punish the No Left Turn violators in the carpool line at Vienna Elementary.

You’re busy. I get it.

But… let the children and the teachers not worry about a test.

I’m much more concerned that Sophia brush and floss each night. And morning.

I’m much more concerned that Miles says “please” and “thank you.”

I’m much more concerned that teachers are valued and appreciated.

An EOG should be a school wide celebration of the year-long work that has been Extraordinary, Outstanding and Grrrrrrrrrreat!

No worrying. Spread the word.

And, really, please do something about the sharks.

Amen.

Misty

Much has been on my mind. Much.

Life has been a ginormous-engantic blur since the January 6 Capitol insurrection.

I’ve skipped through days and nights with every notion of putting pen to monitor. “Roads are paved,” or whatever they say about good intentions.

Nothing like treading water in a hurricane.

Valentine’s Day. It happened. I tried. Honestly. It wasn’t spectacular and I felt badly for the poor execution. I pride myself on holidays. Surprises. Adventures. My family deserved better. I was distracted.

It’s been two years. My mama died February 14.

It’s more difficult now than it was then. That’s surprising. Unexpected.

For the most part, I stepped over the sadness and the memories.

Heart-shaped pancakes. Candy. Sparkling grape juice. A visit from our Valentine fairy, Ethel the Love Lady. Heart-shaped pizza. WONDER WOMAN 84 and movie-theatre popcorn. More candy. We rescheduled dinner and settled for the Sunday special at Taco Bell. So much for shrimp cocktails and stuffed chicken breasts with fettuccine.

No flowers. No teddy bears. No jewelry. No balloons. (For the record, I don’t have the battle-tested temperament for the balloon line at Dollar Tree I used to have.)

Vikki and Sophia and Miles didn’t have the day I wanted them to have. Right or wrong, that’s how I felt. Distracted, indeed.

Before Margaret held court in room 150 at North Forsyth or marked handbell music at Maple Springs, she sang.

My mama was a singer. An extraordinary voice.

One night in my youth, I was watching television. A lady was singing. I was kinda-sorta listening in the way only a teenager can fully understand.

“Mama! That lady sounds like you. What’s up with that?”

“Why do you say that?”

I was watching the screen.

“Look, look. See? She does that same thing you do. That Elvis lip-snarl thing at the corner of her mouth. That’s exactly what you do.”

My mama smiled.

It was true. Whenever Margaret sang, really sang, she would throw her head back and the corner of her mouth would curl up a bit. Her hand would cross in front and grasp at what I imagined to be an invisible martini glass or menthol cigarette. I don’t know. Maybe it was a lightning bolt. Whatever it was, it worked.

“That’s Sarah Vaughan. I wanted to sound like her. Do you like her?”

“That woman can sing! I love it.”

Today, I am playing a recording of Sarah Vaughan singing MISTY for my school children.

Valentine’s Day is finished. Maybe.

You are loved.

Dear Santa – Mrs. Claus

I’ve composed letters to Santa Claus from a few familiar holiday characters. It’s never too late to believe. You are loved. Merry Christmas!

Dear Santa,

My love. I never imagined a life quite like this. I certainly never dreamed of being Mrs. Santa Claus.

I thought of a June wedding in my parent’s backyard. A honeymoon in the Italian countryside. The Junior League. Babies. Growing old together and dancing in the rain.

Then you happened. We happened.

The North Pole? Who lives in the Arctic Circle? With flying reindeer. So much for summertime.

So much for babies. I was ready for two or three. We get letters from every child in the world! Our children.

Growing up without brothers and sisters – I never had to share. I liked being the center of attention. I like standing beside you even more.

I love watching your eyes twinkle when you make another child smile. I love the way you listen to children when they share the secrets they hold so close. I don’t mind sharing you with the world.

I’m thrilled to know we’re the only couple that never fights about money. I love the fact that you believe in miracles. I am privileged to know my best friend’s job is spreading joy.

I’ve never seen you angry. I’ve never known you to disappoint. I’ve never heard you say “I can’t” or “I won’t.”

I think a lot of women believe they can change the man they love. I’ve never doubted you. I’ve never wanted to change you. I like you exactly the way you are.

I’ve never wondered how you feel about me because you tell me every day. I don’t worry about my dress size. I don’t worry about wearing heels. I don’t worry about anything. Being your wife is the highlight of my life.

I love cooking together. I love watching movies together in front of the fireplace. I love waking up in the middle of the night and watching you breathe. I love holding hands in our own winter wonderland.

I am so proud of you. And all you do to make the world a wonderful place.

I need you. I want you. I like you. I love you.

Merry Christmas, Santa Claus.

I love you. Always have. Always will.

Always,

Dear Santa – Virginia O’Hanlon

I’ve composed letters to Santa Claus from a few familiar holiday characters. It’s never too late to believe. You are loved. Merry Christmas!

Dear Santa,

It’s me. Jenny. This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.

Do you remember when I wrote the paper and the man at the Sun wrote back and it was this huge rig-ma-row thing?

“Yes, Virginia – there is a Santa Claus.” Hhhmmm.

First off, my name is Jenny. I have never been “Virginia.” My father insisted I sign every letter as Virginia. My name is Jenny.

This is stupid. I hang out with the same group of friends now as I did when I was eight. And it’s the same conversation we’ve always had. It used to be boys and school. ow its men and work. Same thing.

It used to be ice cream. Now its happy hour. Yes – that’s right. I drink. OJ and vodka at breakfast. A bloody Mary for lunch. Wine with dinner. So what? What? My time. My life. My money. I work.

I am so freakin’ tired of this. One little wreck. It wasn’t even a wreck. It was a love tap. A fender bender. OK – it was a little more than that but it wasn’t a big deal.

Went to court. I did not agree. I do not agree. The judge and my lawyer (my brother) decided it would be best if I went to rehab. What the hell.

So, here I am.

The forever optimistic and gullible Virginia O’Hanlon. In rehab. Are you serious? do not belong here!

Group therapy. One-on-one sessions. If I have to take one more “nature walk” for fresh air, I am gonna lose my ever-lovin’ mind.

And no – my mother doesn’t visit. I haven’t heard from my father since I wrote that letter. He disappeared the same day it was published – September 21^st. Great day. Great day.

Oh God – its the same conversation everywhere I go… “Oh – you’re that Virginia! I love that story. I bet Christmas is your favorite holiday. o you still write Santa?”

Yes, I am. I don’t. No, it isn’t. And hell no, I do not write Santa. Why would I? I mean – it worked out so well last time… Until now.

My counselor. My shrink. My therapist. I don’t know what she is. My life Nazi… thinks it would be a good idea if I wrote Santa another letter so I can find some closure for that part of my life. I got your closure. Right here.

Know what I’d like? I’d settle for some closure on this part of my life. How about that? hat a crock.

So – here Mr. Claus. Here’s your letter.

Dear Santa, I’d like my life back. I’d like to be rid of Virginia. My name is Jenny. I want to be left alone. Oh – I also have a “faith counselor.” Whatever that is.

Her name is Ginger. So yes, God has a sense of humor. Ha. Ha. Anyway – Ginger says miracles are everywhere.

So, Santa Baby, get on your sleigh and find me a miracle. Can you do that? I’ll be waiting. Waiting. Right here. In my little room. You know what they – “yes, Virginia. There is a Santa Claus.”

Sure thing. Sure thing.

I’m waiting,

Jenny O’Hanlon