At this time of year, many people are thinking about spirits, ghosts and ghouls.  Spooky haunted houses, scary noises and images of skeletons populate our communities.  But for me, this time of year is meant to honor those who have come before me-the spirits who made me who I am, and who continue to inspire me long after they’ve left this world.  Dia de los Muertos, celebrated on November 1-2, is a Mexican holiday celebrated all over the world to honor and remember family and friends who have died.  Sugar skulls, photographs, favorite foods, marigolds, candles and special artifacts create altars eclectically magical and stunning to see.  To me, their beauty is worthy of year long display.

What altars do you use in your life?

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Question of the week: 
What is a story your family likes to tell about you?

Read my post ‘Once Upon A Time’ to hear my story.

 

After maternity leave, I’m still getting the hang of getting out of the house on time each morning. I’m up early enough to have some ‘me’ time – 5:30 a.m. – before the pitter patter of my 23-month-old boy’s feet signal the start of mommy-time.  Must plan Cameron’s birthday party for next weekend, I think. Coffee made, candles lit, I start up the desktop as part of my morning ritual, eager to check email and read the news.   Having children broke us of our TV news habit when we realized they were transfixed with images of stark reality we were trying so desperately to shelter them from.

 

 

A breaking news alert flashes into my inbox – “Plane crashes into building in New York.”  Hmm.  I’ve never been to New York.  Worlds away from my cozy study.  I hope it’s nothing serious.

 

Pitter patter pitter patter…here comes my boy, blankie, and book in hand.  My heart thrills at the sight of his big round head.  “Make sister juice,” he chimes with a smile as big as any Cheshire cat.  I switch off the computer, eager to start the morning snuggle and reading time.  It is just another ordinary day.

 

The 11-mile commute to school is nothing unusual.  I drive past the harvested tomato fields, crop dusters skim the highway.  Lesson plans fill my mind.  Exit right, then left, then straight down the walnut tree-shrouded road towards Douglass Junior High, where my 7th grade English students stand lined up, waiting for me.

 

“Hey, did you hear about the plane crash?” they shout as I open the door.

 

“Yes, I did,” I answer, and switch on the lights.  “Let’s get started.”

 

“But, can’t we watch the TV?  I have an aunt that lives in New York, and I’m worried,” a child pleads.

 

“TV?  When do we ever watch TV in class?” I respond with a smile.   ‘Let’s get started – it’s grammar day everyone’s favorite!”

 

Moments later, an announcement is delivered by a TA telling us the grim news.  Not one plane crash, now it’s two.  What???  The Pentagon?  Three planes?  Buildings collapsed?  People dying?  But it’s just an ordinary day!

 

Why don’t I have my cell phone?  This ancient classroom has no Internet; the only technology is the old TV mounted in the corner of the classroom.  Where are my babies? Did Lily make it to kindergarten?  What the hell is going on? I want to go home…

 

Thoughts flash through my head as I try to process what to do.  Thirty sets of eyes stare at me, searching for comfort.  I’m the teacher.  I’m in charge.  I know what to do?  Frantic thoughts of my own children race through my mind.  Are they OK?  What will happen to us?  Are the terrorists on their way?

 

Then I realize-someone is taking care of my children, just as I’m taking care of someone else’s.  I know what to do.  They need me to make sense of it.  That’s what I would want my child’s teacher to do.  Reluctantly, yet desperately, I turn on the TV.  I have to know. I can’t wait all day.

 

After two hours, no word from my family, I switch it off.  Business as usual – that’s what educators do.  Keep them calm, keep them busy.  I know it’s only going to get worse, and it’s only 10 a.m.

 

Two more hours and I’m done.  As I jump in my little gold Escort wagon, I’ve never been so relieved to only work part-time; 11 miles fly by-not enough time to decide how to explain the unexplainable to my 5-year-old.  The radio news drones on and on.  Thousands dead.  The children.  The mommies and daddies who will never commute home again.  The parents who will never see their babies again.  The young people who will never have the joy of holding their child in their arms.  It’s more than I can bear.  The tears stream down my face as I safely reach home.  It’s clearly not just an ordinary day.

 

‘Mommy, why are you sad?  What happened at school today?” Lily whispers, her big blue eyes boring into mine.  How do I answer?  She’s only five.  Far too young to have to learn about such horrors. I tell her a story about a plane crashing and good guys trying to stop the bad guys. “Did the bad guy go to jail?” she questions.

 

“I’m sorry he died, Mommy.  But I’m glad that we weren’t on that plane.”

 

“Me too, baby.  Me, too.”  I realize it may never be an ordinary day again.