The spooky phone call

In late August, 2007, I was watching my daily re-run of Little House on the Prairie. Always loved that show. The fresh blue sky, the waving fields, the walkable roads, all appealed to my imagination, even though I knew better than anyone how brutal and unromantic an agricultural life can be. The new school year was starting after Labor Day, and I knew my days in Walnut Grove were numbered. I jumped as the phone rang. As usual, I looked at the caller ID first. I never answer to privacy directors or unknown numbers. I figure if it's important, they'll leave a voice mail. When I saw the name on the caller ID, my heart started stampeding out of my chest---in a bad way. It was my second husband M., there was no mistaking that name on caller ID! Holy X*(SMBF@#! was my reaction, as though a large spider had dropped onto my arm from a strand above. I had not seen or talked to M. for nearly 23years.
The last time I saw him, from a distance, was in 1985 outside the Courtroom. I'd come to the Courthouse separately to sign some divorce papers. I had completed the grisly task and was now leaving. He didn't see me. He sat alone on a bench, looking forlorn (but then, he tended to be a depressive and serious person anyway). He was dressed up better than I had ever seen him dressed during our marriage, in what must have been a brand new suit and tie. He stared straight ahead, grimly. My guilt twisted like a knife, but simultaneously, I couldn't deny the lighthearted feeling of joy. I did not want to feel good at someone else's expense, but there it was. That was the last time I saw him.
I had no desire to have any contact or communication since the relationship had ended badly. Frozen, I stared at the ringing phone. It rang. And rang. After three rings, it clicked into voice mail. My heart was drumming. What was I afraid of? Twenty-three years had passed. My imagination was going wild with the possibilities of why he might be calling. Had I forgotten to sign something?
I called my sister, a lawyer.
"I know this sounds crazy," I said, "but I just had a call from M., which I didn't pick up, but it's freaking me out!"
"Why would it freak you out?"
"Because I haven't had any contact with him for 23 years! And it ended badly with lots of hard feelings! There's never been any reason to have contact. Is there any possibility that he might have some legal retribution for me...like wanting money?"
"Tsk! Of course not. Too much time has passed."
"Remember, in the divorce settlement, he had to give me some money---because he had money; I didn't! It wasn't much, though, a few thousand dollars."
"Even if he'd given you a million dollars, there's no legal reason he could try to get it back. Wasn't it just six thousand?"
"Yeah."
"Oh hell, that's nothing! I've seen cases where spouses have gotten hundreds of thousands, an extra house, stock options, the whole ball of wax. And you're stressing over six grand?"
"I guess it's the guilt."
"He probably just wanted to call and say hi," she insisted. "Maybe he saw your book and wanted to call and just be friendly."
"How would he even get my number? It's unlisted." The paranoia was expanding.
"I don't know. But if he calls again, you ought to just pick up, talk to him, and be friendly."
"I'm too scared that he's calling to berate me for leaving him."
"I thought you told me he'd remarried about a year after you left."
"Yeah," I said. "She was a lot younger, maybe 17 years younger."
"So he didn't suffer that long," she said wryly.
"I think his wife died a few years ago. I saw her obituary somewhere."
"Died? Isn't that weird. Well, you're blowing it out of proportion. He's probably just lonely and is calling to talk. He can't want anything legal from you because it just can't be done."
For the next few days, the caller ID rang up with his name.
But I didn't answer. Then the calls stopped.

Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven

Recently, L. added a new batch of songs to my Ipod. Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven" was among them. It stirred memories of a chapter in my life that I think of only with pain and regret.

Back in the late winter of '81, long before the technological revolution, M. and I would play "Stairway to Heaven" on a record player. Every morning, as we sat in bed drinking tea, he'd reach over to the nearby player and drop Zeppelin onto the turntable. Leaning against our pillows, we'd sing along. "Stairway to Heaven" begins with gentle guitar-strumming and a soft voice, and intensifies into a ecstatic, drum-pounding wail. Singing along, we'd reach shout-level when the song reached the lines "It's a FEELing I GET, when I LOOK to the West, and my SPIRit is crying for LEAVing!" This line was significant to us because we were psyched up for moving, not to the West, but to the South---where we'd both been accepted in doctoral programs at a well-known university---and our spirits were crying for leaving! The long northern winter, with its gray, leafless panorama; the dead-endness of Maine, were weighing heavily upon us. Adventurous person that I was, I longed for the unknown of the Deep South. The magnolia trees. The warm winters. The challenge of more schooling. And truth be told, I also longed to get as far away as possible from M.'s insane ex-wife. How blind I was in those days to think that all our problems emanated from her, not from issues between the two of us! How immature and stupid of me. But at the time, I was still about a year and a half away from seeing the light.

I met M. at a party. I was newly divorced. He was very drunk, and, as a result, extremely funny and friendly. Back then, I was oblivious to my inclination as the daughter of an alcoholic to seek a substance abuser as a mate! He told me he was separated from his wife. A week later, he took me and my two sons ice-skating. As we emerged from the car on that cold January afternoon, a very tall, very angry, very red-headed woman materialized violently in my face and started screaming, "Who are you? What are you doing with my husband?" Then she shouted to him: "What are you doing with her? And I'm contesting the divorce!" Her diatribe continued, full-volume, as my sons, who had not yet emerged from the car, watched silently from the back seat, mouths agape. Her screams faded into the background as M. and I hopped back into the car and squealed away. He told me his wife had had some mental health problems in the past, and I had no trouble believing him. She'd been hospitalized for depression, he said, had even been in a catatonic state several times. They were separated, but she was living at his house right now, because she had no other place to go since her last breakdown. Six months earlier, she'd left him and taken the children with her out of state, but had had a nervous meltdown there. Thus, he'd flown the two children back to Maine to stay with him. When she was released from the out-of-state hospital, he agreed that she could return to the Northeast and stay at his house, for the sake of the children, until she got established. Okaaayyy.

In a few months, M. ended up moving in with me, partly because he wanted to be with me, but also so he wouldn't have to live with her. After our brief glowy beginning, we began to argue. It always seemed to be about his ex-wife or his kids. Everything seemed to be traceable back to them. She would call our house a lot, which would precipitate a fight between us. Why didn't he discourage these calls? Couldn't he see that she was flirting with him and trying to win him back? His children would visit and fight with my children. He would always side with his, which provoked a fight. His children misbehaved and acted bratty. He refused to discipline them, even if they were rude to me. Another fight. His children would visit and eat all the food in the house. He thought, "Isn't that sweet?" I thought, "I wish he'd contribute more money for food." More fodder for a fight. The baggage weighed heavily on our relationship.

Stupidly, I thought that our strained relationship would be revitalized in a new location. So we sang our way through the winter of '81, and despite frequent arguments, I kept focused on the long-term goal: move South, start fresh, and live happily ever after. In that sweet Southern climate, far way from the obstacles, our relationship would blossom like honeysuckle.

A year later, a year without the ex-wife, a year without the children, yet still with many arguments, the truth was beginning to penetrate: now that the previous distractions had been stripped away, I could see with fresh clarity that things about him that were deal-breakers. I won't air my grievances. Time has dulled the intensity of them, though I spent a lot of time crying and consumed with fury when we were together. I'm not saying that he was an evil person or that I was saint. Only that we were not a good match. I regretted terribly that I was unhappy enough to have to leave him, but I felt that I had to sacrifice him in order to save myself. Oh, he was hurt. He wasn't unhappy, he told the counselor. That's the way marriages were. You didn't break them up just because one of the parties was miserable. A few years later, he remarried and had a child, so I assume he regained his equilibrium, even some happiness. I hope he was able to see in retrospect how much happier he was with his new wife, not me.

As I listen to "Stairway to Heaven" now, I feel glimmers of that short-lived winter-of-'81 optimism that M. and I shared as we sang about "looking to the West." Moving South was supposed to be the stairway to Heaven of our relationship. It wasn't. But, life being the ironic experience it often is, the journey did turn out to be a positive, life-altering turning point in my life, just not at all in the way I expected. Not with him.

Mock Epic: "The Locked Sanctuary of Relief"

Note to the reader: The state people who sweep in to give guidance on teaching are always reminding teachers to show students models of what we want them to write. This is easy for the teacher who uses the same dusty lessons year after year. She can pull out the same old student model from 1992. But if a teacher constantly varies writing assignments, as I do, there is no backlog of models. Thus, I make my own! After reading Chaucer's "The Nun's Priest's Tale," a mock epic/beast fable, I assigned my students to write a mock epic. But first, I wrote one of my own, to show the students how to use rhyming couplets, exaggerated language, allusions, a hero with a mission, and an antagonist or obstacle.

On a related note, in my opinion, many of the teachers and administrators at my school are too rigid about refusing to let students use the restroom, even locking it during certain times. After I read this poem to my class, a girl raised her hand and said, "Did you know that a girl here really did wet her pants last week?" No,I hadn't! But read on:

The Locked Sanctuary of Relief

“O Muse! I sing of the devastating pain
that consumed me, searing me atwain,
My body threatened to burst open wide,
exploding across the room, drenching all sides.
Stationed at my desk in Agnew’s English classroom,
I knew I would require relief from the pain very soon.
How I longed to hasten down the 700 hall,
run like Mephastopheles on his way to the Roman Ball,
and like Mephastopheles who staved off the Italian’s gloom,
reach that Place of Everlasting Relief, the restroom.

My body was a water balloon growing large as a globe,
And was stretched tight, ready to implode.
“I need a pass,” I told the teacher,
that Vessel of Wisdom, a fair-minded creature
who searched through the blizzard of papers for the Passbook,
that ticket to relief; that is all it took,
I sprinted down the hallways, when behind me footsteps arose
Mr. D. was running calling, “Young lady, where doest thou goes?”
But I could not stop, could not wait, did not freeze
I could not delay my pilgrimage to that Sanctuary of Relief.
His footsteps gained behind me, his voice yelled,
“Young lady! Stop now!” but I ran as my bladder swelled;
The sweat poured off my forehead, as the distance grew shorter
I knew I had to reach the Sanctuary before Mr. D. could go there.

Suddenly, in front of me, a blue uniform blocked my way,
Uttering “Where might you be traveling on this fine day?”
“Please, please!” I responded. “My pain grows as we speak;
please allow me to get to the Sanctuary of Relief;
the signed pass in my hand is my proof!
Let me go, dear guard, I’m telling the truth!”
We struggled, I was blocked, he tried to hold me back,
Stating, “You bad students are always running amock!”
I feinted around him, shoving my pass into his eyes,
blinding him with the paper because I wouldn’t tell lies,
He stumbled, I tripped over him, falling onto the floor.
O Muse! Must I suffer so just to reach the bathroom door?
In the distance, I could see the magic words, now half gone:
the words which once had read “LADIES,” but O Dawn!
Time and wear had left but the four letters “-- DIES”,
which reflected my devastating pain and my yellow eyes.
I crawled on hands and knees toward that door,
like a hungry buzzard flying towards the spoils of war,
I crawled toward the Sanctuary of Relief,
my knees scraped the floor, my heart full of grief.
Prostrate on the floor, eyes blurry, I reached my arm
Heavenward to grab the handle, sticky as tar,
of the Sanctuary of Relief which would remove my pain
and prevent my dress from receiving a yellow stain.
It resisted my pull! I tugged and tugged!
I pounded on the wood, into which my nails dug and dug!
“O Mercy!” I cried, as the door was locked!
And where was the key? I knocked and knocked
Hoping that some skipping girl would hear my din,
And would open the Sanctuary of Relief from within.

“Young lady!” shouted angry Mr. D.
Having finally rushed the hall and caught up with me;
“Come with me, young lady.” I slowly got up,
Wet with sweat, and tears, and…O Muse! Must I ‘fess up?
The water balloon had burst, overflowst if you will;
My battle was lost and I got detention still.
Hear my word, all you young scholars at Groves
Who would answer Nature’s Call before it grows
Out of control, O Please! hear my fervent plea
and always remember not to have to pee
during school hours; tell Nature not to call
between 7:45 and 2:30, at all. That’s all!
Amen.

Beowulf, the movie

Nov. 22: I was disappointed that the principal forbade a school field trip to see the new movie Beowulf. Anglo-Saxon literature is part of the required curriculum in 12th grade in Georgia. We finished reading Beowulf in October, and by November, many students began saying, "Did you know there's a new movie about Beowulf?" This made me think that perhaps story may have left some impression after all. The principal stated that the movie was off limits because it would include violence. Hah! The textbook version, which describes Grendel storming Herot Hall and ripping up the men, chewing their bones, spitting them out, and drinking their blood, is not exactly PG-13. And what about the section where Beowulf rips out Grendel's arm from its socket with his bare hands? The principal stated that the movie should not replace instructional time, period. Yesterday, I saw the movie with my family, and I believe it would have had value as a complement to the Beowulf text. It was a 3-D movie, which added to its vitality. It had its weaknesses, but let me tell you about its strengths, as a teaching tool. First, the details of Anglo-Saxon life at Herot Hall came alive in a way that a text could not match. So much about Anglo-Saxon culture, the mead-drinking, bearded men, the architecture, the weapons, the dirt floors, the torches barely illuminating the dark room, the rickety tables, the conversation, the food and drink, was brought to life in 3-D. The values of the culture were conveyed too: the importance of courage, bravery, reputation, boasting, and fighting, as the men in the hall talked about heroes and battles. I also loved the depiction of the brutal, freezing Scandinavian weather, which is so much a part of Anglo-Saxon poems such as The Wanderer and The Seafarer, as well as Beowulf. One reason Grendel attacks Herot Hall is that he is in the cold woods, looking enviously from a distance at the warm mead hall where the men were together, like family, boasting and drinking, while he is freezing, lonely, and alienated. The scene of Beowulf sailing over the North Sea towards Denmark sent shivers through me. I have always emphasized to students how perilous sea travel was in those days, even for the Vikings, and here we see Beowulf on his little Viking ship, soaring up and down those 30 foot waves, as the sleet pelts down. An important scene in the original story is the battle between Beowulf and Grendel, the first of Beowulf's three battles. The movie was faithful to Beowulf's boastful, pre-battle statement that he, as an honorable warrior, would use no weapons to fight Grendel, since Grendel used no weapons. Yes, he pulled off Grendel's arm and hung it from the rafters, just as in the book. The movie emphasized the importance of story-telling as the main and crucial form of communication in those days. Several times, it quoted lines from the book, stating that the story of Herot's troubles was told far and wide by scops and spread overseas. Later in the movie's timeline, as meadhall entertainment, a re-enactment of Beowulf's fight with Grendel is acted out in Herot Hall, as a scop tells the story in the original Old English. A great touch.

On the downside, the movie's plot took its own turn at the point where Beowulf goes to the Monster Lair to fight Grendel's mogther. Nothing in the text indicates that Grendel's mother looked one iota like Angelina Jolie, let alone that Beowulf had sex with her in Monster Lair; he beheaded her instead. Anglo-Saxon poetry is very sex-less. With the exception of "The Wife's Lament," it's about men and their battles, their loneliness, their alienation. Why doesn't a great catch like Beowulf even have a girlfriend, let alone a wife, I often broach to my students. ("No, it's not because he's gay; it's because men are focused on their own heroism and because women have such a low status in that culture, they're not worth mentioning.") Another flaw is the time line. Fifty years passes between Beowulf's battle with Grendel's mother, and his final battle with the dragon. By then, in the book, Beowulf is clearly a very, very old man, especially at a time when the average lifespan was 35 or 40. But with typical Anglo-Saxon bluster, he is determined to fight to win glory and to enhance that all-important reputation, even in his old age. In the movie, he looks as though he has only aged about five years. Still lean and muscular and pumped up for battle, he takes on the dragon, who turns out to be his own son from his encounter with Angelina Jolie, just as Grendel is the result of King Hrothgar's indiscretion with Angelina Jolie. Symbolically, this "sins of the father coming back to haunt him" theme reminds me more of Oedipus. In the book, Beowulf battles the dragon at the dragon's cave. The dragon's flame melts his shield, and scorches him. He is losing the battle, so young Wiglaf races in to his defense. The issue of loyalty emerges---where were all the other young thanes who are supposed to be defending their elderly king? They hover in the background like cowards. In the movie, Wiglaf is present in the early years, already about the same age as Beowulf; in the later years, Wiglaf is not a youthful supporter, but a contemporary. The plot diverts wildly from the original, as the flying dragon soars over Denmark, Beowulf swinging through the sky as he hangs from a rope or a dagger attached to the dragon. It's visually exciting but far from the plot of the original story. In the end, the movie plot returns to the book's. Beowulf dies and has his burning funeral pyre that can be seen by sailors far and wide. Despite the flaws, I liked this movie! The Georgia curriculum framework mandates the teaching of Anglo-Saxon culture, values, themes, literary devices. I think the movie delivered on those.

Perfect Day

Nov. 21. A day off! Perfect temperature in the seventies. The Georgia trees tinted with reds, oranges and yellows. So P. and I drive to Oatland Island to hike through the woods. We've loved that place since P. was child. I used to take him there in the summers, partly to work off some of his unrelenting hyper-energy, but also because we both loved the way the animals were housed in natural settings, deep in the woods, in isolated sanctuaries set off by subtle fencing and boardwalks. Though hyperactive, P. could focus like a laser on random things that grabbed his attention, and he liked watching the bears pace. I remember standing for an hour by the wooden fence overlooking the bears' habitat as P. stared silently at two black bears slowly waddling back and forth, back and forth. He was also entranced with the wolves, the cougars and the bobcats. Once, when D. was visiting, the three of us hiked through Oatland. I took a photo of D.and P. walking ahead of me on boardwalk that goes over the wetlands. D. was about 20; P. about six. D.'s tall, manly shape and broad shoulders contrasted with P.'s little boy form following behind him. Today, 15 years later, P. walks ahead of me on the boardwalk, now a tall, manly shape himself, his four-day beard and a cap adding to his years. In the woods, as we hike along under the canopy of trees, it's blissfully quiet; the only sound is the soft wind and the crack of falling acorns hitting the branches and the ground. I love the whisper of the wind. At school all day, there are voices and noises plundering my ears non-stop. Here at Oatland, the silence is priceless, a balm to my fractured ears. We walk through the woods and climb the ramps to see the cougars, bobcats, foxes, wolves, and bears. We stop at the large pond with multi-colored trees reflected on its glass-like surface. This scene is so breathtaking that I use my cell phone to take a photo and send it to Liberto. At the aviary, we see the hawks, owls and eagles. The local newspaper recently featured a front-page story about a hawk at Oatland Island who had had surgery for his eye cataracts. Now his vision is fully restored. I wonder as I look in the aviary if the hawk sitting on the stand in front of me is this famous one. We walk through the barnyard. P. notices that the cow lying peacefully on the hay is not the same one from years ago. The mischievous goat, gnawing on straw, triggers memories of the goat we had on the homestead years ago. P. wants to hike back to the opposite end of the sanctuary to watch the cougars one more time. We stand for 20 minutes watching them stretch, groom, pace, and even pounce on each other like baby kittens. P. wonders what their names are. No names are posted, so as we leave, I stop at the front office and ask the names of the two cougars. The friendly woman doesn't know but radios someone on her walkie talkie. "Their names are Kalika and Commanche" she reports. P. is delighted to hear their names, and asks that I write them down as soon as we get to the car. As we drive away, P. says, "Let's come here again soon."

Where do I start?

I opened this blog as a repository for my bits and pieces of writing. I named it "Sharonsfriend" since my dear friend Sharon told me how to start a blog. She uses it for her writing, and I will too. I love to write but always feel the pressure after the first two sentences that it's time to stop and get lesson plans ready for next week. Teaching high school is MUCH harder than teaching college. Not only are the students less interested, but various administrators are always slipping into the classroom, tablet and pen in hand, to document whether you are attempting to engage the students, using meaningful lessons, and following the state standards. When I think back to my college teaching career, I recall complete freedom to do whatever I wanted, whether it was good or not. Seriously, with little attention or feedback, how do I know whether I was an effective professor? There were certain posted "outcomes" for the end of each course, but no one checked to see whether the students had met them. No one ever came for observations. All annual evaluations were based on self-reporting and student evaluations. We were evaluated in the areas of teaching, publication and service, on a range from unsatisfactory to outstanding. But only one person, the Chair, determined the score, based, as I said, on self-evaluation. What it came down to is that most professors teaching freshman composition did what they wanted to in their classes. Annual raises were very mysterious too. We were told that 3% would be given university-wide, for example, but within Departments, it was distributed among all faculty based on the discretion of the Chair, and the amount was never known until the following school year! At least in the high school system they have a published pay scale based on degree and years experience, and they stick to it. The raise for all teachers is announced each spring and every teacher gets that amount, period! New high school teachers enter the system knowing what their salary will be and it's the same for everyone of that degree and experience. In college, new hires could come in at any salary the Chair sees fit to offer, and negotiations take place behind closed doors.