Beach Walk
Posted on November 1, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe
loving fiercely | teaching audaciously | thinking deeply
Posted on November 1, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe
Posted on September 17, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe
The pathway looks just as it did 40 years ago when I first rode to his office. Tiny aggregate stones cemented along juniper prickly bushes, apartment parking lots on either side. Only the legs moving the pedals had changed; a bit older, yet still the memories flash back to Icees and Pay n Save nail polish.
It still smells the same, too. That dental kind of tart, sterile and oddly comforting smell. The waiting room, updated, yet still the same configuration as always. The receptionist smiles as welcomingly as if decades haven’t passed.
I stretch back in the chair, searching for the familiar 70’s wooden signs warning me to floss and keep a clean smile. The poster high overhead has been replaced, I notice.
“Ooh, I’ve never seen that before,” chimes the technician, a familiar face, yet only within the last decade. Not something I want to hear, even though she claims there is good news along with the bad.
But I dodn’t panic. I sink deeper, breathe, and know he will take care of me, just like he always has. She steps out, and I overhear her telling him I’ll need an afternoon appointment – because I’m a teacher. He hasn’t checked on me yet, so I fill her in. “He’s the only dentist I’ve ever seen. In my whole life. We were neighbors when I was little. And I even taught his son,” I inform her.
“You wouldn’t believe how many people say that. The only dentist part, I mean,” she replies with a smile. “It’s amazing. Four generations, even. People just keep coming back, bringing their families, their kids.”
I smile to myself. Of course I believe it. Well, maybe not the four generations part. His icy white hair may hint at his age just a bit, but certainly not four generations.
When he enters I’m back in elementary school again. Not many people can call me by my childhood nickname, but I wouldn’t have anything else right now. He asks about my dad. “Isn’t he getting to retirement age?” His eyes twinkle as he speaks.
“Are you kidding? He can’t retire yet- he’s just a young guy,” I tease back, knowing he’s remembering those days when his kids and I used to kick-the-can down Mulberry Lane.
“And anyways,” I continue. “He keeps getting too many clients who want him. They like the experienced guys.” No kidding here.
As he chuckles in agreement, my body folds into the chair and we begin. It’s just like it’s always been. I have no idea what’s really going on inside my mouth, but I’m ok with that. For a type-A teacher like myself, that’s an uncomfortable feeling. But strangely, it’s ok right now.
It’s never rushed, never wrong, there is never a misstep. His skill doesn’t change with years. He knows just how to make me feel at ease. “Just sit back, kid,” he commands. I haven’t been called that for a very long time.
When he’s done, he steps back and looks me in the eye. All seriousness.
“I can’t thank you enough for teaching my grandson. He’s amazing. He’s planning for college, creating amazing projects. He’s learning to fly a plane,” he boasts in only the way a grandfather can. “Thank you.”
My numb mouth cannot keep up with my brain, and I smile in thanks as he walks out of the room.
Biking home, I’m still in elementary school. It’s all too familiar right now – just a bit farther and I’ll be back home. Nothing much has changed in 40 years.
But as I enter my adult home, just a few blocks away, my brain and mouth collide. Thank you, Dr. Spore, I whisper to the empty room. Thank you.
I’ve come full circle.
free image courtesy of FreeDigitalImages.net
Posted on June 2, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe
Posted on April 17, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe
After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.” – Philip Pullman
The author of The Golden Compass has a good point.
Parents know to provide the basics for their children: keep them fed, keep them protected, keep them company and all should be well. Kids beg for one more thing: our attention. One of the most gratifying ways I met that need with my children was through sharing a story.
Storytellers can take many forms. In many cultures, children learned life lessons and the natural world was uncovered through the oral folktale tradition. Families share boasts about ‘back in the day’ to instill values.
When my kids were very young I read to them constantly. Hours of repetition began with Goodnight Moon, then Richard Scarry, and Curious George. I remember reading a children’s version of The Nutcracker Ballet for twelve months straight because my daughter insisted and I gave in.
Posted on February 10, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe
Some days I wish for that machine from ‘Back To The Future’ – the one where I could climb in and time travel backwards. In the movie, Marty McFly found himself thirty years back in 1955, smack in the middle of his parent’s romance.
Mainly, I’d travel back to beautiful places I’ve been in my life. I’d love the convenience of pushing a button and finding myself in a new location. If I felt like great adventures, I’d go to Nicaragua. For youthful abandon, I’d wake up in a hostel in Amsterdam. Missing my childhood pen pal? I’d go back to Yorkshire, England. Nostalgia for family who have passed on would send me back to Sherman Oaks, California. A yearning for academic stimulation would find me in Berkeley.
Today I want to jump in with Marty and travel back to the place where generations of my family have landed before me. I want to walk on the soft white sand towards the lone Cyprus. I want to climb over to Bird Rock and peek into the Whaler’s Cabin at Point Lobos. I want to climb Hawk Tower and stare into the Pacific, imagining Jeffer’s view from the early 1900s. I want to watch my babies bury themselves in the sand of the Bird Sanctuary Beach and giggle as they wiggle their toes free.
Then tomorrow I’ll be back in 2012, immersed in life as I know it today. I’ll be driving from mountain to mountain, cheering my children as they catapult down the ski run. I’ll be packing lunches and loading skis, grading papers and doing laundry, unloading groceries and washing dishes.
But just for today, could you open the door and let me have a moment just for me?