Oklahoma Winds

Almost no one has ever spent time in Oklahoma.

Whenever people ask about my life, and I mention my time in the state, they nod and say, "I passed through once on my way to Dallas/Los Angeles/Memphis. Not much there." I can't disagree. The Indians, who were marched in on The Trail of Tears from their beautiful homelands elsewhere, felt the same way.

I've said plenty of times that if I'd been on a covered wagon headed West, I'd have turned around and gone back upon rolling into Oklahoma.

The Wichita Mountains near Lawton are the country's oldest range and, in their hey day, would have looked like the Rocky Mountains. Now they're on their way back into the earth, which explains why they're reduced to piles of colossal rocks. Even the mountains want out. Enough said.

Yes, Oklahoma has cities with air-conditioned malls and elaborate suburbs like any place in America. Their universities are impressive. First-run movies play there. They have Starbuck's.

But the lay of the land defines any territory. Despite its post-card pretty spring azaleas, it's basically a hard place with far too many flat acres sliced up by barbed wire. During summer droughts, people give up on lawns and daisies and tomatoes because water is rationed. The blamed hot wind burns the life out of everything green.

So it's an everlasting wonder to me that Broadway's first modern musical was Oklahoma! Set in a simpler time, it's about everyone getting all dolled up to go on a picnic. Such a sweet notion. If you know the story at all, however, you know it takes a bad turn. Tap dancing and fringed surrey aside, a menacing darkness roars through the fun.

That is Oklahoma.

Smack dab in the center of Tornado Alley, it is a horrific place to live. I've seen my share of twisters. They are a swirling, mesmerizing wonder. Dropping out of a bottle-green sky, they massacre the landscape with an unforgiving tunnel of wind.  I've hidden in hall closets and underground shelters and never been hurt.

But that wasn't true a year ago when twenty-four people died from a tornado in Moore. Our relatives there suffered serious property damage. Life is still not back to normal for many and never will be for some.

If you live anywhere in Oklahoma, you know it's a dangerous place. Powerful loss can ride in on the next brutal wind.

So I was especially touched when we saw Maggie's boyfriend in his school's production of Oklahoma! They captured the romantic spirit of a farm on the plains. They whooped and hollered through ambitious dance sequences. They had ruffles and paper lanterns and picnic baskets. But best of all, they had a collection box in the lobby for donations to the Moore High School Theater Department because that 2013 tornado destroyed their construction equipment. A portion of ticket sales went toward the fund, too. These sympathetic students in St. Paul wanted to help.  

Annually in Oklahoma, "where the wind goes sweepin' down the plain," countless valuable things are carried away.

But every now and then, good winds blow in, too. Generously. All the way from up here in Minnesota.

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The Happiness of Lady Chang

I know she looks like a statue to you.  But she has a story.

It begins with Maggie's hardest year in grade school. The teacher was not adept at creating community spirit, so chaos prevailed. Whenever I volunteered to help with a classroom project, Maggie ran to me as I arrived and held on for all she was worth.

Often when I picked her up at dismissal, she was exhausted, quiet, worried after her tumultuous day at the "zoo." I understood.

Sometimes retail therapy seemed like the best medicine. She rode in the shopping cart's child seat, her hand over mine, as we looked at towels and mirrors and sandbox toys.

One day at the sale table, she pointed to a pile of garden trinkets. "Oh, Mama, look at her. She's so sad," she said, pulling a scuffed white wooden Asian statue from the mix. I agreed. We talked about her perilous journey from China to North Carolina. We wondered how it felt to be beautiful but overlooked among the chintzy plastic lawn accessories. We imagined what would make her happy.

Marked for Final Clearance at $3.99, we were her last chance. We shuddered to think where she'd be sent next. We had to take her home. 

She was lovely in our yard, placed beneath a pink dogwood. Maggie called her Lady Chang. I don't know why. The tree's petals fell around her, just as that horribly challenging school year was ending. Maggie insisted she looked happy for the first time. I could see the difference, too.

When we moved to Minnesota, Maggie started middle school, not an easy thing. We brought Lady Chang with us. She's had a hard time in the front garden.

We don't have a pink dogwood tree. Squirrels and rabbits have eaten the flowers we planted beside her. She has been covered by snow for seven months every year.  Happiness has been elusive.

Maggie moved on to high school. Boys can be rude. Girls can be mean. Teachers can be thoughtless. She didn't always get the part she wanted in the play.  

In desperation, I planted a bleeding heart in the garden last summer. A heat wave took its toll, despite my watering efforts.


Sometimes all a mother can do is wait and hope through a bitter season.

But this spring has been good.

The bleeding heart bloomed.

Maggie attended the prom.

I've never seen Lady Chang look happier. 

Trust me.


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Target Therapy

I spend a lot of time at Target. It has socks and celery and Starbucks in one place.

But more than simple shopping, I sometimes roam the store for inspiration, for head-clearing color. Because I spend so much time alone as a writer, moving mindlessly down their carefully arranged aisles of details has a therapeutic effect.

Maybe that sounds crazy, but it works for me.

You go any place often enough and you notice the regulars. My nearest Target has Charlotte.

She's always there in the morning, sitting in the plastic chair by the west door. She silently watches all of us entering and exiting. Her face is emotionless. It's hard to guess how old she is. She could be 45 or 65 under her short white hair.

Lost souls are beyond age.

Yesterday was unusual because she was walking the aisles with a Target employee. Charlotte wore purple plaid flannel pajamas under her red jacket. She thought she needed something cooler for spring, but she definitely wanted pajama bottoms with pockets or as she asked, "What will I do with all my stuff?"

He nodded understandingly and agreed no pockets could be troublesome. "Charlotte, let's look over here for something that might work. We have some on sale today." He led her to racks of pajamas. I went on about my way.

Then I found her in the dairy section, talking through the opened refrigerator door to the employee who was stocking milk. "These won't be cold enough," Charlotte explained to him. "They should have been put out during the night, so they'd be ready by morning." His answer sounded polite and apologetic. Charlotte said she'd come back tomorrow.

I'm guessing she always finds a reason to return the next day.

When I got home, I looked up Target's mission statement and noticed the part about "exceptional guest experiences" along with remarks about "behaving ethically and with integrity." Their design comments mention dedication to more than looks. They focus on how design "satisfies a need" and how it "makes you feel." 

I know Target has been under fire for the holiday credit card debacle. I don't know enough to weigh in on that, but honestly I'm surprised that stolen identities and banking fraud aren't hourly occurrences, given the cards we swipe into machines all over the place that send the information heaven only knows where. 

I just know that Charlotte, whoever she is, is treated respectfully by Target. She might not realize the importance of her experience, but I do. I'm glad for her.

We both benefit from Target therapy.

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The Way We Are

For me the jury will always be out on Facebook.

I'm not really a picture poster of my morning walk or my pot of soup or my new shoes. Still, through Facebook I've been found by great people who have been absent from my life for decades. I've read some interesting articles I wouldn't have discovered on my own. I've been inspired by artful banners with lovely sayings.

Recently, however, I happened onto a heated exchange among students I taught at an independent high school in the 80s. I was amazed.

In all honesty, I couldn't remember much about some of them, but some I will always know like the back of my hand. Teach teenagers for four years in a small school and sponsor them in extracurricular activities, and their emotional fingerprints leave marks on your heart.

My husband Cliff and I met at that school. He taught in the elementary division, and over the years, his students began to show up in my classes. By trading notes, we realized they hadn't changed from kindergarteners to freshmen. The rowdy ones were still racing down the halls. The anxious souls were still biting their nails. The excellent students were still academically engaged. Children were children.

But here's what snapped me to attention as I scrolled through the Facebook ranting. They really hadn't changed in adulthood either. Grades and classroom behavior were no longer the issue here.

Civility was.

Tolerance was.

Goodness was.

No matter how many degrees they'd earned or spouses they'd had or children they'd raised or careers they'd exchanged, their personalities were basically the same.

I was relieved to no longer be responsible for the difficult ones. But I missed the dear ones like all get out. Their considered comments made me smile. Few things are better than knowing you once played a part in the sweet lives of people who have maintained their clarity.

We are who we always were. For better or worse.

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The Strategy of Belief

Children come easily into the lives of some people. That was not the case for Cliff and me. Armed with a wing and a prayer, we ended up on the roller coaster ride of international adoption in the 1990s.

China had their rules. The United States had theirs.

Our job was to send countless notarized documents back and forth across this country and theirs. I walked around with my hands in the air, ready for yet another round of fingerprinting. Cliff said there was no reason to put his checkbook away because every office wanted another fee. 

Then everything changed. China said the baby demand required an overhaul. They padlocked their adoption bureau doors. Our paperwork was trapped inside. It would take however long it took.

We waited.

Like a lot of women in my shoes, I avoided toy stores and children's departments. Tiny sweaters and stuffed bears were painful reminders. They went into the hands of every child except ours.

Then one spring shopping day in the middle of housewares, I needed to believe in her, our anonymous oversees baby. Ceramic ducks and glass eggs lined the shelves, and I remembered the Easter decorations my mother displayed every year. They made the holiday real for me. I wanted something that would make the holiday real for her. Some day. With us.

Magical thinking is hard to explain. There is no rational equation here. Every heart clings to something.

Suddenly I spotted them: a sugar and creamer of adorable bunny sweethearts. He held the yellow mirror so his girlfriend could admire her bonnet. I knew she'd love them, this child I'd never laid eyes on.

A year later, she did.

Maggie carefully positioned her face to peek into that tiny mirror, adjusting the girl so she could see herself. She's done that every year of her life with us until this one. In that offhand teenager way, she said it didn't matter.

I've been thinking about this. For several years we've played a game when I'd make out a grocery list. I'd ask if she needed anything. She'd offer several items: strawberries, peanut butter, and a boyfriend. "I'll look," I'd say, pretending to add that, too. I finally realized this year she has the thing she's wanted for years--a sweetheart of her own.

I moved the girl for her.

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Teaching in the Dark

I don't know that people can really be taught how to teach.

Anyone can memorize strategies. Anyone can follow the Teacher's Guide. Anyone can give a multiple choice test. But what do you end up with? None of that accomplished what I thought ought to happen in a classroom.

I once had a sophomore English class of 15 or so kids who wouldn't talk. They were good kids, but I don't know if any of them were destined to become college English majors. Scheduling controlled the kind of students who ended up in a section. Maybe these were excellent math/science minds. The answer needed to be 24 or it was wrong. The experiment needed to prove at what temperature oil boils.

Discussing a novel was wide open territory. That kind of horizon might have been too far to travel for them. I knew it would be a long year if I couldn't bring them along on the journey.

Out of desperation, I decided to make them invisible. If no one saw them, they wouldn't have to risk being embarrassed for an answer. So I took a lantern that we were using for the fall play to class. The windowless room would be pitch black without the florescent lighting.

I struck a match, replaced the globe, and lowered the wick, knowing most of them had never seen a lantern lighted. When I told the girl near the switch to turn off the lights, she hesitated. This was not a direction ever given. "Go on," I said encouragingly.

There was a soft gasp. I let the silence settle as their faces faded into the darkness. Every last classroom expectation disappeared.

They became anonymous.

I asked a question about the chapter. No one answered, as usual. "I know," I said. "It's a hard thing to think about. I'm not sure I know how to answer it either. I can wait."

They realized there was no point of raising a hand that couldn't be seen. They calculated this puzzle. Finally someone spoke quietly, admitting he wasn't sure either, since I wasn't sure, but thought....Then someone else spoke. Then someone else. I asked another question and another, all based on possibilities they'd offered. It was a discussion, all right.

I suppose you couldn't do that now. I'd be reported for having matches. A parent would complain that I'd endangered lives. I'd be written up for violating fire codes. It wouldn't qualify under Common Core guidelines.

But I can tell you this: Nothing was ever the same in that room again. They found their voices in the dark. And they weren't about to go back. I still have that lantern. If lighted, you'd see the same glow. But I see those golden sophomore faces.


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Lilies Nevertheless

In Minnesota, spring is a struggle.

I awoke on this April morning to five inches of new snow across the garden--pretty and fluffy but wrong.

On a day like this, it takes imagination to remember what lies beneath the snow. Below the cold drifts, my grandmother's lilies wait for their chance. Even though they are invisible, they hold their inevitable green and yellow promises close.

They are not worried. They are not frustrated. They are not desperate. They wait patiently. Theirs are resilient spirits. 

I cannot face making another pot of hot soup for dinner, not in April. Instead, I'm looking ahead, trying to be like a lily nevertheless. So we'll have poppy seed chicken and asparagus with fresh lemon juice. I'll let a few seeds fall onto the platter. Dinner will be a reminder of what people forget when faced with April snow.

Seeds.

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