I'm Losing My Red

I’m losing my red.

I first started to lose my red when I dropped my cute, red, point-and-shoot camera in a London airport. Helen was just so cute walking along pulling her little suitcase, that some ridiculous idea came across me that I could (because my right hand was full of stuff) take out my camera with my left hand, push the button to open it and take a video of her —all, while walking and getting farther behind the rest of the group. (Yes, you guessed it. I’m right handed. And yes, it was a stupid idea, which resulted in my cute red camera having the back pop open…right at the beginning of our Great Britain vacation with the kids.) After we arrived at our B & B in Cambridge, Jay and I both futilely tried to push the sides back together.  Eventually, Joel walked over, peered down at the camera, took it, smashed it back together (either because he is stronger than us, or he didn’t care to be careful), and it clicked right in place. Though the screen had a few bubbles in it, it worked great for the rest of the trip. I have pictures to show for it…if I ever get them posted on facebook.

The real death of the camera came on our anniversary. Well, really the day before because we generally get to spend our actual anniversary sitting in before-the-start-of school meetings that every teacher in America find inspiring and beneficial. So the day before our anniversary, we made a picnic lunch, consumed it at Cheyenne Mountain State Park, and hiked up a trail. All was well until it began to rain, then pour. Though I tucked the camera in the pocket of my rain blazer, it was thoroughly soaked when we slid into the truck. Alas, the display on the back has been black ever since. Pictures it will take, but looking through the view finder is not my idea of fun. Jay said, “You just need to get a new camera like my new one.” “Do they come in red?” I responded. “No, just silver or black, I think.”

Then tonight we went to look at new phones. Our phones are old…way over the contract period. Jay wants a new iPhone when they come out. We decided to scout around the AT&T store to get an idea of our options for the other 3 phones. Right away, we found great little phones for our moms. They’re flip phones, have large number pads, and pretty much look and function like their old ones. Then it came to me. I wanted something I could text on if I ever decide to learn how to do that. I wanted something that looked a little more “with it.” (I feel like I need to keep up appearances with these teenagers I share life with 5 days a week.) Touch screen, it had to be. I gazed longingly down the row. Not one red phone in the entire store. So, in a couple of weeks, I’ll switch out the sim card from my cute little red phone and slide it into a classy, but black, phone…with a touch screen.

I’ve also noticed that my little red purse is looking a little worn around the edges. It’s handy with little pockets for all my cards. But I do have a bag that I bought this summer that would work well this winter. You guessed it. It’s a nice black fabric.

Yes, I’m losing my red. I see it slipping right away.

I guess in reality I began to lose my red years ago, one hair at a time. I’ll never quite forget the time I updated my driver’s license, and they changed my hair color from red to blonde…without even asking.

Now, I don’t have anything against black. It’s classy, sophisticated, and sexy. I just happen to think red is fun. And I do want to push into the future, but I’m sure going to miss my red. 

A Woman's Handbag

On our trips to Europe the last two years, I’ve carried a compact purse with a shoulder strap, which holds everything I need. There’s a small front pocket with a flap that fits my digital camera perfectly. Inside there’s room to tightly stuff my passport, a package of Kleenex, a small bottle of hand sanitizer, a tube of lipstick, and an adequate supply of Smarties. There’s also a compartment for the most important things when visiting Europe: my debit card, a credit card, money, driver’s license, and my health card (not that the health card could do much for me over there.) All in all, it’s the best $5 clearance purchase I’ve ever made. Jay calls it “Granny’s Magic Purse” because the Smarties have come in handy on many excursions with our grandchildren—so much so that they think the purse holds a never ending supply.

In York, Helen procured a cute little handbag. Each morning in London, she greeted us at our hotel door with her purse slung over her shoulder. Each day as her 4 ½ year old frame became weary, Helen’s purse spent a good deal of time draped over Kim’s shoulder or stuffed down into another bag I often carried that housed things like a rain jacket, snacks, and a scarf.

One London evening as Helen pushed her handbag into Kim’s hands, Kim stated flatly, “Helen, what do you have in here?” and began to take out its contents as the three of us stood there next to the Thames under a setting sun. She lifted out 3 headbands, an assortment of small dolls—with accessories, the pink handle to Helen’s broken suitcase… At this point Kim tilted her head and gave me the look that speaks far more than words to anyone who’s ever been the mother of a little girl, and said, “This is ridiculous,” and tossed the handle in a nearby rubbish bin.

This event caused quite a stir until Helen was assured that she would receive a new, improved, and unbroken luggage piece before returning to Germany. She had been quite concerned over the small suitcase when we’d returned the rental car at the airport, glaring up at her dad and stating emphatically, “I can’t drive this thing because it’s broken, and you didn’t fix it!” (I guess she simply wanted to know where the handle was when he got around to it.)

But, for anyone to assume that Helen’s purse served no purpose, that was surely not the case. On the day that we wove ourselves into the bowels of Westminster Abbey’s elaborate and vast series of tombs, Helen and Breck sat patiently on the floor in several locations, playing with all sorts of items from Helen’s purse.

Most certainly, when J. K. Rawling developed her character Hermione in The Harry Potter series, she realized that second only to a magic wand is a woman’s handbag.

Walking through Summer

I have a deal going on with my doctor. Last May, I felt terrible—actually I’d felt terrible all winter. So, I looked him square in the face and stated: “I think it’s stress. I think I need to quit my job.” To my surprise he concurred and said we’d all feel better if we quit our jobs. Then, he proceeded to order a set of blood work, which came back less than stellar. There were certain markers for type 2 diabetes, and my family history didn’t assure him one bit. But, when he started talking meds, that’s when I put in my two cents once more. “If I were to lose weight, those numbers would come down, wouldn’t they?” Since he was in a compliant kind of mood that day, he gave me six months.

But, as summer began, there were tons of things to get done—house stuff. Then, there was the trip to Texas to see a new baby and play with little girls. We made cupcakes, a pie, and we went to Babes. (I could go to Babes every night.) Next, we spent a few days with Mom and since there were just the three of us, and we had lots to do, we ate out nearly every meal. From Mom’s, our plans took us to Kansas City where we did movie night (with lots of popcorn with Flora and Scout) and late night snacks. On our return we’d both managed to gain 5 pounds.

So, with a trip to the UK a mere 2 ½ weeks away, it was time to get serious about weight loss (between spending time with our grandbaby here, of course). A 9-inch plate suddenly became my best friend and we walked. And we walked, and when I’d complain, Jay’d remind me that this had been my idea. He’d made no deals with the doctor, but he was incredibly supportive of mine.

As soon as the American Airlines jet touched the ground in London, so did our feet. We walked to our B&B; we walked through a library, galleries, and museums. We took a fast train to Canterbury and walked all day. My goal was simply to not lose ground, so my diet plan was to eat half my meal and give the other half to Jay. (I’m not sure what that did for him, but at least he wasn’t ever hungry.)

After meeting up with Joel’s family, we walked in the Lake District and down Hadrian’s Wall. We walked up more castle stairs than I want to recall, and we walked some more, even down the Royal Mile in Edinburgh. We walked up more castle stairs, looking out over the North Sea, and I was grateful we’d started walking weeks before in Colorado Springs, or I would never have survived.

Arriving back in London late, we discovered our hotel room for the next 5 days was perched on the fourth floor—76 stairs up. And after we ate breakfast each day in the basement, we hiked a whopping 92 stairs back up to our room. We walked down streets; we walked across bridges, and we walked along the shores of the Thames.

Once home it took a couple of days to lose the two pounds of water weight from being on a plane or sitting in an airport for nearly 24 hours, and I was grateful to be back to where I’d left off before leaving.

So, jetlagged and all, we once again began to walk. We walked early in the mornings. Once school started, we began walking late at night. I guess we’ll just keep walking until we walk into the fall and winter, where I plan to walk right into the doctor’s office a slimmer and healthier me.

Now that I have them, I don’t want to lose my walking legs—because next summer I just might decide to walk up one of those mountains that I look at each day as I trek across the east side of town.

Remembering Paris

Remembering Paris

I think it’s our destiny to visit large, famous cities in the rain. So, it was with Paris. We’d taken an overnight bus trip from Heidelberg to Paris. Some people can sleep anywhere. I’m not one of them. By the time morning broke and we were weaving into the streets of Paris, the rain poured in torrents. Our French guide, jumping on the bus and shaking off the water, assured us that we were fortunate. It’d been blistering hot the day before.

In a fog from lack of sleep, we drove around the points of interest. I gave little attention to the expensive shopping district. But the history of the tall buildings that lined the older parts of the city roused me from sleepiness. “In past centuries, businesses were on the ground floor, the wealthier tenants next and the very poor in the upper reaches 4 or maybe 5 levels up.” (There was certainly no way to ignore the less fortunate or the more fortunate in those days, at least for city dwellers.)

I strained through sheets of rain to see the backside of The Thinker in a courtyard somewhere. The Arch of Triumphe pretty much escaped me. We were simply too close in the bus to see as we drove under it in the torrential rain. A quick stop at a great place for pictures with the Eifel Tower in the background and then we were headed for the famous tower itself and our drop off point. We were instructed where to meet that evening and admonished, “We will not wait for you if you are late!” She made believers of us, and everyone else—as we were all assembled long before the bus arrived back to pick us up.

Standing in the steady rain, Jay and I decided we’d pass on the long trek up the Eifel Tower about as quickly as we’d decided to pass on the 400 plus stairs up a dry cathedral tower in Florence. With merely a day in such a city, we’d had to choose between the Louvre and the Musee d’Orsay. d’Orsay won as Kim had said the Mona Lisa was in reality quite small, cordoned off, and hidden by masses of onlookers. Our bus guide, a French lady, had agreed.

Being less than art novices, I don’t know what we expected. At the moment, its lure was simply that Musee d’Orsay was dry, and as the rain continued to weep over the city, we were in little hurry to move through its galleries. We saw Van Goghs that I’d previously pondered why anyone would care about them—from the poor textbook pictures I’d seen. Now I knew. Even my untrained eyes widened at the bold strokes and the something that I don’t even know what it is. I just knew. We sat in the room of Monets, not lily pads but large panels of a beautiful woman stepping through the countryside. There were other great Romantics and scenes made from tiny dots I’d read about, but could not remember what the technique is called. It made me wish I’d been required to take an art appreciation class in college like our children had.

With d’Orsay thoroughly experienced and the low clouds cried out, we picked up a sandwich at a stand, and I took off my soaked through and worn out Sketchers and tossed them in a rubbish bin, replacing them with flip flops. We located the Metro and headed for Notre Dame. Our only regret was that we didn’t go inside, but the fear of missing the bus kept us from the long line. We did, though, saunter around each side, snapping copious pictures of flying buttresses. We wandered down famous streets and crossed the ancient bridges that span the Seine.

We stopped by a vender and split a French something that I don’t remember what it’s called, because Madame Voss had said, “It like nothing you’ve ever tasted.” We agreed, but we didn’t much care for it.

I cherish our two trips to France. I could go back to the bustle of Paris or the quaint streets of Strasberg and be glad for it. It was fun to read French, even when I didn’t know what the words meant. When I left, I wanted more than ever to learn French, but the school year that followed would not allow it. Madame Voss had moved on to new adventures, and my teaching load was one of the most challenging ever.

But as I reminisce sharing Paris with Jay, a new school year is on the horizon. I’m returning to my comfortable and established routine, and Madame Voss just might be back (for at least a few weeks) to broaden French students in my room during my planning period. And when I hear her voice, I’ll remember sitting next to the palace pond with the Farris wheel in the distance and no doubt long for a pain au chocolate which will always remind me of France.

Introduction to Great Britian

With barely an hour's sleep, having not slept one wink on the plane (though having read a goodly portion of Hunchback and observing my companions' all in a fitful slumber), our first stop after checking in was to the British Library, an English teacher's dream come true. With little sleep and even less food, I was totally engrossed seeing an early edition of Shakespeare. There were also works in progress of Wordsworth and Oscar Wilde. Of note to me was how much their first efforts looked like mine, words and phrases marked out and scribbles all smudged across the pages. Though the skill not on the same par, it was satisfying to see the greats having to struggle too.

Being the 400th anniversary of the King James Version of the Bible, there were extra displays of early manuscripts, along with scraps dating back to the 3rd Century.

The small room that holds two copies of the Magna Carta was so hushed and reverent feeling that you'd think the document was sacred--which to many Westerners, I suppose it is.

Visiting the library on a Sunday afternoon was probably the best place Jay could have guided me to. So now, with Scripture, liberty, and creativity firmly set in my visual memory, it's off to a pub for food before I faint.

Europe: Remembering Florence

Having maneuvered Rome and public transportation, Jay and I were ready to set out on our own adventure. It started when Joel dropped us off at the train station in Pisa. His family was heading back for another day at the beach. We were headed to Florence with the same enthusiasm as Sandra Bullock in While You Were Sleeping. They didn’t stamp our passports there, but as “Lucy” surely discovered on her honeymoon, there was much more to Florence than a passport stamp.

As we sat on the train platform in Pisa, eating our French (Italian?) pastry, I looked around and thought how very much it all looked just like the train station picture in my French 1 book.

The morning air felt cool, yet a little humid. Just sitting on the bench on the train platform made everything seem so different, so European. Jay had our day scheduled. I think I took his preparations way too much for granted. By the end of the day, I knew I had. With regional train tickets and Rick Steve’s guidebook in hand, we soon boarded our train for Florence. As Italian trains either zip or clickity-clack along from town to town, they all take in the great expanse of countryside.

Once we arrived, Jay, being the logical side of us, took his bearings so he’d know how to get us back to the station that evening. We had an appointment early to see David, the David. As others waited in long lines, Jay guided us around to the “reservation” entrance. (Thank you, Mr. Steves.) Butt naked and all, the statue is unbelievably incredible, right down to flexed tendons in his forearms and the veins in his legs. Art students were trying to sketch him and others just gazed in amazement. (We were in the “others” category.)

After David we explored a little known museum of De Vinci’s machines.  The mirrored closet, where you can see yourself from all angles was interesting…and revealing.

We ate lunch at a little outdoor café, toured the cathedral, decided against walking up the 400 tower stairs, and wandered forever through the art museum, by appointment, of course. We strolled over part of the covered bridge that houses establishments with lots of gold for sale and decided we were out of our element.

We hiked up a hill, a very steep hill in the heat of the day, to a parking lot that overlooks the town. On the way we passed an outdoor group watching the World Cup on a huge screen in a grassy area by the river. We just happened by when Italy scored. It was kind of infectious to see their enthusiasm, especially when people started stopping and getting out of their cars to join in the cheering.  

Later in the afternoon as we wandered the streets, the street venders seemed to materialize from nowhere. There I bought scarves for myself and the girls. If I’d only known what a good deal they were and how much I would love them, I’d have purchased more.

But, as the day came to a close and we sauntered back to the station, my favorite was the gift from Jay—a snow globe of Florence. And that will only have significance if you’ve seen While You Were Sleeping, and then you’ll also know why I keep it on the kitchen window seal to shake each day and to pronounce Florence as the Italians do—Fi REN ze.

on The Lake District and Poetry

As I was taking my morning walk today, I couldn't help thinking about nature and how inspiring it is. Some of my favorite poets, the Romantics in particular, were often kicking around the gorgeous outdoors and writing about it. A lot of my ideas for Journals for Christa spring forth from a walk. This morning I couldn't help thinking about the Lake District and going there this summer. I'm hoping to bring back a whole journal of poems. But even if not up to Wordsworth's style, I'm excited to gaze on his beloved nature...and hoping for a little inspiration myself.

Thought for Today

God makes no deals—

Oh, how often I wish He did: when Joel was in Iraq—the spiritual well-being of my family—a hedge from sickness, evil, disaster—immunity from discomfort, frustration, indecision.

But, God…being God…makes no deals and has no obligation to do so.

“I would be so good if...”  “I would work so hard if…” and on and on.

To know my own limitations—to know that it’s okay for God to be God—to know Him better and know He’s good.

To trust Him more—

A Day at the Beach

The first ocean I ever saw was the Mediterranean—at dusk, beneath antiquity’s ruins—. While standing amidst the marble strewn sands, the sun stretched out where the heavens meet the water’s curve and splashed its radiance on Poseidon’s wavy peaks.

More than 30 summers later, I gaze out again from a Mediterranean shore. What a day—our day at the beach. Playing in the sand, holding Helen above the waves, paddle boating with Jay to the buoys’ edge. Watching Joel bury Breck in the sand and Kim absorbing the sun—

Now, months later and miles away, I realize that one of life’s greatest gifts is memory.

When I look out into a starry night

With air so cold it cracks my darkened rhymes,

My soul in anguish longs for sorted flight

To distant shores of sands in ancient times.

So, take me back to Arthur’s dancing kingdom,

Where laughter blends with sunlit skies at noon.

And knights consort with poets' fabled freedom,

And all of Nature’s breath reflects his tune—

 To heroes lost except in classic lore,

Where proud the banners waved with deeds for good—

And supernaturals help defeat the foe,

When man or woman’s heart cried out in woe.

I long to see where strength and honor stood

And welcome forth the past to modern shores.  
Deb Borkert ‘11

Pondering

Pondering. I wish there were a clear cut way of knowing God's will...kind of like email.

Frankenstein

Frankenstein, written Aug. 9, 2010                                                           

I don’t re-read every novel that my students read each year. If I did there’d be no time for grading their papers, and other reading, as it’s not uncommon to have 4 of my 5 classes in different works at any given time. But, each year I peruse through any that I’m feeling a little rusty on. So, since I didn’t teach AP last year, and it had been awhile, I’ve given Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein a cursory look the last few days before I delve into the summer reading analyses sitting in my gmail inbox.

I always get more out of a classic with subsequent readings, but I think I enjoyed traipsing through Europe with Shelley’s overly ambitious student and his beast because I’d just been to so many of the tranquil, yet haunting, places she describes.

As Shelley describes the beauty of Lake Lucerne and how the Swiss Alps border the lakes, I had a vivid image in my mind, not from her description alone, but from my personal thrill of such breathtaking beauty. When Frankenstein and his father rest in peaceful Strasbourg, I realize that Shelley herself would have walked the same avenues, gazed on the same rivers, and perhaps ate under the same 350-year-old sycamore tree. And the narrow crooked buildings lining the old town streets were the same as well. Did she wander through the cathedral and ponder Paradise Lost from which she parallels the monster’s relationship with Frankenstein to man’s with God or even Satan with God?

For the ice packs of the far north, I still must solely rely on Shelley’s eye, and probably always will. I kind of wish I’d thought about Mary Shelley and her companions on their stormy night next to the lake where they made the pact to write a story of horror and wonder. Maybe I would have if the winds had whipped up a squall and lightning had shaken the mountains.

But, for me the lakes exuded feelings of joy and innocence as I watched Breck and Helen dip their sticks into the water’s edge. Perhaps I should have, but Mary Shelley’s and her monster’s unhappy lives never entered my mind.

I Have Been Sequestered

Today Jay trotted off to school. I’m at home…with the laundry, bathrooms upstairs to clean, and an inbox of 15 AP essays on my gmail account. Feeling pretty good for a change, I’d kind of like to go out, but I can’t—just like I couldn’t go to school. I am contagious. And so not to be a silent bearer of bad bugs, I have been sequestered.

Looking Forward

15 godly girls this semester--4 of them international students. After reading all their essays yesterday, I think the mission field has come to me, from far and near. Hope God shows up. It's pretty fun on the days He does.

New Year's

What will a new year hold?

New adventures, new family members, new decisions--

I guess that's why it's New Year's

...a time to wrap away some of the past,

to peer into a new reflection pool,

to lift our hands in joy and dance to a new song.

What will this year hold? 

Somehow, I think it will be good.