Truck by Cornfield

Truck by Cornfield

Copyright by Susan Shehane

July 25, 2009

 

Only centurion whiteoaks and beechwood

know the secrets of the Coosa,

remember why mourning doves coo

in swales near cornfields,

echo nighthawks, whippoorwills,

hoo-owls.

 

No one remembers when the farmer

last fished before daybreak,

crept to the cornfield, sited quail

by the hedgerow,

parked his Ford 150

by tomato vines, muscadine,

early peas.

 

Yet something remains unchanged

on Coosa River Road, where

one can still rise early to hear

mocking birds greet daybreak

as they did fifty years ago;

recall past thunder of tractors,

trucks, cotton;

and the subtle sound of the Coosa ferry,

signaling twice-daily passage

to the Titus side.

 

No one remembers just when

that old Ford 150 was

abandoned by the cornfield,

or when ferry, farmer, truck

made their final runs;

no one knows just when the landscape

succumbed to kudzu and hickory,

and the Ford began to rust.

 

But something about the scene

beckons a tale, a poem,

a distant voice from the past

when farmers knew their fields

along sandy roads that wound their way

to the Coosa River,

and the sound of the ferry

could be heard for miles.

 

Something

stands a testament against time,

against concrete and mobile homes

encroaching upon cotton, cattle, corn.

 

Something about that old truck

makes us long for the farmer,

tilling fields before breakfast,

a faithful retriever by his side,

ready to jump in the cab

with a simple, “Let’s go, Bud.”

 

Something

recalls seasons after harvest,

turkey, dove, deer;

of the farmer in winter:

his time never wasted;

his communion with nature

celebratory, compleat,

and personal.

 

Something about the scene

seasons the landscape,

taps shared secrets of memory

along Coosa River Road,

where dew awaits dawn

and deer trails find waterfalls.

 

No one knows how long they’ve been there,

river, truck, cornfield.

Grandma

How can I count the ways I love my grandson? I love him because I see the joy of an unspoiled vision in his smiling face, because he is the incarnation of pure joy, because he lives up to his name, which means Happy in Hebrew, because he is the culmination of so many dreams.

Because he makes my daughter happy beyond belief. He hugs now, you know. And claps for himself and others.

Just joy.

Pure joy. What else can a grandma say? That I hope you’ll stay this happy, that you’ll always greet the day with a smile. Your mother has, and so will you. Because happiness starts with yourself.

Grandson — you’re still better than chocolate.

Wetumpka, a joy

I never really imagined just how much I would love teaching high school students at Wetumpka. But God is good. What a joy the students are — what a joy it is to see them mature and work so hard.

Anyone who says the kids these days aren’t worth much has not met my students. They give me hope, and I am humbled, honored, thankful to have the experience of sharing their high school days. How I’d love to have a crystal ball to see where they’ll be. But I can already tell.

Teaching junior high gave me the skills I needed to deal with students in general, but how much more impact a high school teacher can have. Who knows?

I am just glad to be where I am now — a teacher, a grandma, a church muscician. If it ended tomorrow, it would be enough.

Humbled again, and grateful

When people think of being an author or speaking to groups, they most likely think that there is some sort of thrill that an author gets from being noticed for her talent, that sort of thing. If my book (Alabama Listening) had been published five years ago, maybe I too would have felt that sudden rush. But the experience since April, when my book was published, has not been that way. Being the author of a book is really nothing in the great scheme of things. Finishing the book was an accomplishment, sure. But what I can say with absolute sincerity is that I’m mostly glad the book is out because I’ve been able to meet some of the most genuine souls, both men and women, who share my story. My mother is their mother; my father was someone they’ve known, often their own father, a railroader, or a grandfather. Everyone has someone like Joe and Lois Lee. Everyone has a story to tell.

Today I met with a study club at the Montgomery Public Library (Governor’s Square Branch), and I felt right at home. Because we all share the same stories, because we come from the same branch which makes us human and alows us to laugh our way through the crying. Neat people.

Kim Owen, Branch Librarian at Governor’s Square, has been a supporter since I first met her in June. She’s even written letters to help me get into Alabama Bound — and I’m very pleased to say that I’ll be at the Local Authors’ Expo sponsored by the Birmingham Public Library. Judy Tidwell in Alex City at the Adelia Russell Library welcomed me to her library’s study group recently, and I was simply overwhelmed by the genorisity and kindness of women who would have been, otherwise, strangers. But we’re not strangers. We share the same Southern story. We have freed the women of our past who had to endure the oppression of having little or no choice. And yet we share the common stories of men like my father, men who could be both overbearing and demanding, yet entertaining and philosophical.

I’ve always given credit to my father, because it was his story I wanted so much to preserve, his storytelling abilities, his stories.

But it was my mother’s life that became the real story, and so many women appreciate that. At last, I freed my mother. Her story is out, and so many women feel a kindred spirit.

And thanks to so many friends in Prattville, Wetumpka, and Millbrook. I love you.

We’re going all the way to Birmingham on December 1. God is good — but mostly, you are –

in Christian love,

Susan

Revelations in the doctor’s office

This morning, as I sat in the doctor’s office awaiting a shot, x-rays, and I have to admit — a breathing treatment — certain memories triggered a very deep sense that I missed my mother in so many ways. Even though my mother died six years ago, on the eve of the infamous 9/11, I still think of her daily, and certain images and memories trigger not so much grief as memory of all that mothers and daughters share.

At that moment, though, rather than thinking of just my mother, I suddenly thought of a woman I’ve known for nearly thirty years, a woman who lost her mother when she (the daughter) was only ten. From there, she went from a loving home where she was the only girl and the center of attention to a home where she felt no love at all. In fact, she was abused. Over the years she has suffered the gamut of emotional and mental problems, difficult and broken relationships, extreme mood swings, paranoia, obsessive-compulsive disorders , hypochondria– you name it.

Because she will not accept help, she has lived life in the tunnel of such emotional roller coasters. She has a hard time showing concern for others. She does love, but because of her illness, she really isn’t able to experience the normal give-and-take of life.

Everyone has battled understanding her or so many years.  Sometimes our impatience   turns to anger, because we are frustrated that she will not help herself by accepting the kind of help she needs. But we have been trying to understand what can not really be understood — for too long.

No matter my own life experiences, even classes in psychology, nothing could have prepared me for the very simple revelation I had today. It was like a spiritual experience (no, I’m not losing my mind!).

Perhaps it was the memory of my mother; maybe it was spiritual. At length, as doctors and nurses showed far more concern for me today than I really had for myself, I suddenly understood. I suddenly understood from the core of my heart — maybe it was my own mother telling me — that this woman whom we all love far more than she loves herself, this friend of 30 years, had lost that core love so soon in life that she has searched for what can never be replaced. (Did I mention that her father died when she was about four?) She finds herself in doctor’s offices two or three times a month because the medical profession gives her what she has never gotten elsewhere. Compassion. Concern. Care. Sometimes even a mother’s touch. A kind word.

And after nearly 30 years, I finally understand. The tragic part is that just understanding can’t heal her, not now. I would like to tell her an angel told me today how to understand her, that she just needed an angel hug. But she burrows into the closet of the despair she both knows and can not escape. She will not take the medicine that could help her, nor seek the counsel that could heal.

Maybe a letter. A prayer. A few kind words. She’s had enough of the other.

My mother was such an unconditionally generous and loving person. Even now, six years after her death, she’s still giving. Memories of her trigger new moments of insight, of sheer epiphanies. Most of all, I am thankful that I had the kind of mother that I did. How blessed was the world to have had her for 81 years — and how dear are my memories of the moments and experiences, love, we shared. And I wish for my friend the visit of an angel like my mom.

A Summer of Homecoming

This summer has gone by way too quickly, but it has been one of homecoming and thanksgiving. So many people, so many shared memories. So many welcoming arms, hugs, smiles. A week ago, my husband and I, carting a small stock of books, rolled into the Millbrook Public Library. There we were greeted like old family. And that’s what Millbrook is to me: it is a melting pot of memories and shared experiences that have brought each of us to the table with a song of thanksgiving. In Millbrook, where I did a book signing, old neighbors, friends from the Millbrook Baptist Church, my former Girl Scout leader, the librarian, friends from high school, many friends from Brookwood Baptist Church where Mama played the piano — all came together because of a little book, and mainly because we had connected earlier in life. Reunion was joyful. Thanks to all who visited, bought books, and shared their memories. Thanks especially to the Millbrook Public Library for hosting the book signing and publicizing the event.

A week earlier I was greeted by an equally jubilant group of avid readers, friends, and fans at the Gillespie Center in Prattville. There I did a short program and read from the book. What a delightful audience! Thanks to all who came and shared in what was a most memorable and enjoyable day for me and my daughter Allison. We hope you had as much fun as we did. And thanks very much to Sarah Stephens of the Millbrook Independent and Don Fletcher of the Prattville Progress. Each did such a good job in promoting the book through newspaper articles.

And earlier in July, Caroline Hutcheson at NPR’s affiliate, Troy University Public Radio, enthusiastically interviewed me — her questions were pointed and she was well versed in her knowledge of the book. Thanks, Caroline.

On Sept. 25, 6 p.m., Wetumpka Public Library, I’ll be doing a program for the Friends of the Library — and I’m very excited about that. It’s always fun and rewarding to talk about Alabama Listening and how I got to the point where my reflections became a book. I’m equally excited about going to the Adelia Russell Library in Alex City, Ala., in October. The library group there has already purchased books, so talking to a group who has already bought and read the book will be very rewarding. They’ve done their homework! I’m really looking forward to these engagements, and I’m very thankful for the invitations.

On Dec. 1 in Birmingham, I’ll be joining other Alabama authors for the 2007 Local Authors’ Expo. That should be extremely fun.

Thanks to all who have made this adventure so worthwhile. I’m looking forward to making new friends, and every book you buy helps Coosa River Books plan for the future.

Susan

Kudos to Elmore County

Finally, there is a county in Alabama that is serious about improving teacher retention. Just a few weeks ago, I wrote that I was not surprised there was a teacher shortage. And I’m still not surprised –

But tonight, as I look back on my first week in the Elmore County school system as a new English teacher at Wetumpka High, I can honestly tell readers that there is hope. Elmore County should be the model for other counties. The entire week has been devoted to helping new teachers develop a plan for success. Instead of talking about requirements, duties, and test scores all week, the focus has been  positive. Someone has finally realized that teachers need to be treated as individuals — and as assets. Someone has finally realized that teachers are the school’s best resource for improvement. Thank you, Elmore County.

A few words on Original Guilt

One of the traits of Southern women has often been ascribed the misnomer of “Southern hospitality.” What many may not know, however, is that as a Southern woman born into this shared history of always being polite, outgoing, and more than willing to cook for an untold number in an instant — cheerfully — mind you, I can tell you from personal experience that hospitality isn’t the right noun for what we do here.

 We Southern women are actually born with original guilt. I inherited this trait directly from my mother, who was always apologizing to everyone. At 51 I am now carrying on the tradition for expressing personal sorrow (guilt) for everyone else’s unhappiness or discomfort.

So you’re having a bad day. “I’m so sorry you’re having a bad day. Is there anything I can do to help?” See how this goes?

You didn’t want sweet tea — you wanted UNSWEETENED tea. “I’m sorry — you can have my drink — see, I haven’t even tasted it yet.”

Didn’t get the job you wanted? “I’m so sorry. You deserve better. You know life just isn’t fair.”

As mothers involuntarily teaching this trait to our children, we pass original guilt down during our children’s formative years. “You have a headache? I’m sorry. Let me get you a Tylenol. How about a glass of water?”

My own children, now grown, noticed my propensity to apologize for everything quite a few years ago (just as I had noticed my own mother’s . . . ) and urged me to quit saying, “I’m sorry.”

“Did I say that?” I asked. “Oh, I’m sorry.” They have now calculated a mathematical forumla for predicting the number of apologies per minute that can be expected from a mother like me born into original guilt.

See what I mean? It’s not hospitality. It’s something else.

Women who are single and childless can delay the onset of original guilt for a few years. But just let them have one child. And suddenly you have a totally different picture.

Why, just the other day, my oldest daughter, now the mother of my only grandchild, forgot that we were supposed to have lunch. All week long she had been inside with a fretting baby. . . . Back and forth to the doctor’s office. Suddenly, he felt better on the Friday we were to have lunch. And she immediately left home, taking her son (my GRANDSON!) to the other grandmother’s house just so that she (my daughter) could have a respite and meet her friends.

Her first reaction when I called her from the restaurant? “Oh, oh, Mother — I am SO———–OH SORRY!” This was followed by repeated phone calls and e-mails, dinner the following night, and a host of other seemingly hospitable moves to right the wrongs . . . .

“Uh, oh,–” I said. “Do you see what’s happening to you, Stephanie? You’re apologizing in excess. You’ve got it!” I told my daughter, who just turned 29.

“Oh, no!” she said. “I’m sorry.”

See?

(You can read more about ORIGINAL GUILT in my book called Alabama Listening in the Cold War Era.)

Calendar for Susan Shehane, Author, Alabama Listening

September 25 (6 p.m.), Speaker, Wetumpka Public Library, Wetumpka, AL

Oct. 3 (1 p.m.), Adelia Russell Library, Alexander City, Alabama

Oct. 13, Governor’s Square Branch, Montgomery Public Library – program and book signing

Dec. 1, Birmingham Public Library — Local Authors’ Expo

Why the teacher shortage is no surprise

The growing teacher shortage should come as no surprise. As a veteran teacher, I’m proud of all that we have accomplished and what we’re doing in Alabama. We’ve made great strides toward improving education. Student test scores keep going up, up, up. The No Child Left Behind Act has ensured that students needing remediation can get extra help — help they’ve long needed. For the first time in the ten years I’ve taught, we have reading programs readily available to all children reading below-grade level. We are making progress.

But at the same time, says AEA, a significant number of teachers leave the teaching profession within their first five years. A new mentoring program has been developed (it’s really not new, but now mentors will be paid) to help teachers make it through the first, most difficult years in the teaching profession.

Mentoring is important. A mentor can help train a teacher on all the nuances that aren’t in the manuals. She/he can help a new teacher play the ropes right,  learn effective classroom management, and how to deal with parents — all of which aren’t in the manuals.

But the teacher shortage still isn’t a surprise. In Georgia, where teachers no longer can obtain tenure (job protection), there is an extreme shortage. Alabama has tenure laws, but still is experiencing a teacher shortage in the critical areas, secondary core subjects like math, English, and science. So what’s the problem? There are any number of plagues in the public school system. But it’s really not broken. It just needs mending.

A number of social issues play out in the school scene.  One primary malady is when it comes to failing/misbehaving students (those two go hand in hand),  parents often don’t want to accept responsibility.

 When there’s a problem at school, when Little Johnny is failing, the teacher’s always at fault. Blame the system. Blame the teacher. Don’t take responsibility. (By the way, NCLB makes everyone accountable except those who should be held most responsible, parents.)

Another problem. . . Schools are so crowded and schedules so hectic that children simply feel lost , like they don’t matter. This makes for unhappy children who, at last, don’t produce (test, test, test!).

Teachers feel their voices don’t matter in the educational arena. More than anyone else, they observe Little Johnny each day and know as well as anyone what’ s going on with him. Test scores, however, don’t care if he’s been jostled from school to school for the past five years, or that his parents just divorced. Test scores don’t take into account that a parent’s just been deployed to Iraq. Little Johnny is too worried about whether or not Daddy’s coming home. He just marks the boxes.

Test scores don’t care that not all children are computerized test takers. While teachers measure a child’s performance based upon a variety of measures — heck, they’re required to do just that — standardized test scores don’t. In all the legislative efforts to help, NCLB falls short.

High-stakes standardized testing in which the end result, the test score, is the only thing measured leaves Little Johnny feeling like a number . . . . A number that he really is and has become.

It’s all a dehumanizing process. Teachers know this.

 They do what the public, politics, and principals all demand — their jobs.

But what about this job is attracting new teachers to the business?

……..

The teacher shortage should come as no surprise. Until dignity, respect, and fairness are restored, the profession will suffer.

It is a noble profession that demands our best and which is so gravely needed in a nation calling itself free. Public education is the essence of a democracy.

But the shortage shouldn’t be shocking.