Letting Go and Holding On

A return to this blog somehow coincides with the end of another school year which is now slowly, surely, thankfully coming to a close.  I am beyond ready, as are my colleagues and the kids, the big-person, little-person tribe weary from a long 180 day journey that unless you walk in these shoes will never be fully grasped.  I've always said that if there was a chandelier hanging in my classroom, the kids would be swinging from it come June.  They've worked hard.  We've all worked hard.  It is time to say good-bye.  

Summers off.  Yes.  Summers off, I suppose.  "Those teachers. "  My dad, in his unruffled, so-be-it manner, always reminded me that it's nearly impossible to enlighten others about a hard-earned break that is not only justified but necessary.  This gift to regroup, rest and recharge allows us to take on the marathon (and the chandelier) again soon enough.  Non-teachers need not understand.  Many will.  Lots more won't.  It's all good.  Warrior-teachers we will remain.  

As spring arrived and the school year began to wind down, my heart stopped beating for brief intervals from time to time.  It's been in these moments that I could barely catch my breath.  No, not in lasting kinds of ways.  Instead, in ways that reminded me that this year is markedly different from last.  This year no one precious, at least to me, is dying.  This year I don't need to dash from school at any given moment, year-end punch list incomplete, to be with the person I love most on this earth who I know isn't long.  

This time last year my heart raced all the time.  I glared at the calendar wishing for a halt of days and with it an unrealistic, bottomless gift of time.  More time, please.  More time.  All I wanted was to walk away from Room 10 and capture all the remaining moments with a father who I treasure more than any of these words will ever tell.

People always say, the first year is all about getting through those "firsts".  I suppose that's true.  Maybe it's true.  I can't really be sure because I suspect that the seconds and thirds and fourths will make me take pause too.

I know what they mean when they carry on about this "first" business.  But for me, this first year has been about that and so much more it seems.  I couldn't breathe in the initial months after Dad passed.  For lack of a better word, a sickening feeling fell over me every time I registered his passing and realized I would no longer hear his voice, be welcomed with one more bear-sized embrace, gaze at his infectious, heart-filling smile and feel the love in the sparkle of his eyes.  I would no longer return home to his greeting on my answering machine, the only one still to call us on our antiquated landline, telling me about the book he had read, the benefits of blueberries and meditation in no particular order, asking about my day, wondering about the best ways to make that protein smoothie from the yoga magazine I'd left behind for him to read.

I missed him on the very first day of school when he would have called to find out how the day had unfolded, what the kids were like, the curious things said, and who was the most wiggly.  I missed him come fall when an unexpected surgery had me at home ending a long chapter of loss that he understood like no other.  I missed him at the first crunching of leaves, on the first snowfall and the first full moon and all the moons to come.  I missed him on Christmas and Valentine's Day and St. Patrick's Day and every day in between.  He was a sucker for moments, as am I.  He was missed once again on mother's day when he would often call just to say hello because he knew, always knew, the day was never mine.

And as June came along, and with it birthdays and father's day, I missed him all the more.  When I arrived unknowingly at a surprise party last weekend to celebrate my 50 years, pulled off lovingly by Bob and my family, I lost my breath again.  The surprise was true.  I did not see it coming at all.  And as I took in the crowd, registering all the family and friends who came together to celebrate with me, I lost my breath once again.  As my eyes roamed and warmly greeted folks one by one, I knew a most cherished one was missing.  Another of the firsts.  My precious Dad missing.  My breath gone.

One year ago my dad and I wrote our last post on this blog.  It followed our final yoga class together.  I've not had the strength to return here to this blog since.  I've not felt brave enough to take on this writing without him, though I know our work is not done.  I have several more pages of his handwritten notes outlining memories that we wished to put to page.  The treasured scrawl is mine to keep or share.  It's too soon yet to say what will become of it.

Either way, on this day it is clear to me that there really aren't firsts and seconds and thirds.  I believe in the words of Brené Brown, a writer I so greatly admire, when she says, "Emotions are a complex thing."  Her words, as we end this year of firsts without Dad, have helped my breath return and my heart settle in ways I need it most.  She goes on to say...

There’s a combination of joy and grief that can take your breath away. The sum of those two parts wells up inside you and holds your breath hostage until you let go of the notion that you can control the paradox and choose between joy and grief. Your breath returns only when you submit to the reality that you are caught in the grips of both delight and sorrow. Both are strong. Both are true.

It's ok to be brave and afraid at the same time.  We have a sign by our back door that reads, “We can do hard things.” We hung it there to remind the kids that hard work, tough conversation, and emotional pain are normal and important parts of life.

Now the toughest paradox of love – letting go and holding on. 

It is with these words that I've allowed myself to let go and hold on to Dad, albeit on shaky legs some days.  I begin each day with him.   Perhaps I start with a "good morning" over my first cup of tea.  Maybe I murmur to him as I pack my lunch, but often it's when I drive to work and take in the beauty of the trees and fields and wildlife seen along the way.  I let him know I am here.  I tell him I miss him and that I'm ok.  We're ok.  We're all making our way.  I ask him for strength and I assure him I am finding joy and peace and love, and that I'm so truly grateful that he is too, because I trust with all certainty that he is.

So, as I celebrate a milestone birthday and spend my first father's day without him, I am reminded that Dad has been and always will be my champion.  He taught me how to love.  Oh, did he teach me that.  He brought out a goodness in me that is a mirror of his own.   Paradox or not, letting go and holding on, it is what we have.  And it is in this spirit that I will carry on through all the days to come.  

Yoga Dad

Anyone who knows me well understands that over the course of many years my yoga practice has become central to my life.  It has kept me sane and grounded when I wasn't sure sanity and peace would ever be mine.  As life's rambling journey would have it, in recent years Dad has begun to embrace yoga too and I couldn't be more pleased.  Truth be told, Dad has always been an active guy.  Sports of all kinds are a huge passion of his.  Over the years, I've heard him described as "a natural" when it comes to a variety of games.  Ambidextrous even, which sounds impressive to this sports averse human.  Really?  One can actually bat lefty and righty?  Knowing (caring?) as little as I do about sports I cannot fully attest to the accuracy of these statements, though I trust them to be true.  What I do know is that Dad has always loved a ball game, a backyard "toss", a competitive tussle of any kind.  In the lighthearted, easygoing way that he approaches life, he has always been game for all forms of athletic revelry.

As a non-competing type, it has been a pleasure for me to watch Dad join the ranks of the quiet, peaceful yogi world.  I'm not surprised.  He has the perfect make-up for it.... heart-centered, compassionate, loving, spiritually curious and physically able.  Having talked often about his chair yoga class with Pam at the YMCA, I just had to join Dad and see for myself.

Chair yoga?  Some might offer up a polite nod of the head.  What kind of yoga could possibly be accomplished in a chair?  What physical, spiritual or mental benefit could one possibly gain in a cold, gray, metal folding chair?  Well, quite a lot actually.  I didn't have to meet Dad's instructor Pam to know that he has been reaping the benefits.  His enthusiasm for returning to this multi-level group week after week has been more than evident.

I met Pam recently when I escaped work early one day to join Dad at his weekly chair yoga class.  I understood immediately why he loved her class.  Pam is warm, engaging, funny and quite simply skilled at making yoga accessible to a broad range of body types and ages.  They move. They breathe.  They laugh - a lot.  Though I may have been much younger and more "able-bodied" than everyone else in the room, and the pace of the class was far mellower than the ones I typically attend, I walked out of that chair yoga class feeling inspired, relaxed, energized and at peace.  Of course, having Dad next to me for an hour of heart-centered breath work and gentle movement was the best gift of all.

Stay present.  Breathe in. Breathe out.  Repeat.  

Be open.  Love the ones you're with.  Seek peace within and without.  Smile.  Smile again.  Laugh out loud.  Find quiet every single day.  Capture the precious and priceless.  Find your way to the beautiful spaces of the outdoors.  Seek joy.  Live.  It's what matters most, always.

Namaste.

"Paper doll" action with Pam

Yogi Girl and Yogi Dad

Spring Gratitude

As all of my teacher friends can attest, as well as my husband for that matter, and most certainly Dad, the arrival of school vacation week in April brings with it a collective sigh of relief.  Spring fever hit my classroom, and quite likely ALL classrooms, with unmistakable predictability.  All of us, kid-humans and adult-humans alike needed a break from the rigor of our daily schedule and from each other.  It happens every year.  Teachers can count on it in the same way we can count on the mind-blowing snails pace at which 7 year olds move in and out of their mountain of snow clothes when winter recess hits.  Not for the faint of heart, let me be clear.

Fast forward to today and we are now on the slow, but certain crawl to the end-of-school finish line in something like 28 days.  28 days.  Yikes.  I have no idea how we will get it all done, but miraculously we manage to do it year after year without incident.  Multiplying gray hair perhaps, but rarely does anyone go up in flames.  Now, rather than detail my long punch list of year-end to do's, let's instead look back to what was a most spectacular start to school vacation week at our place in Vermont a few weeks back...

The daily temps that week hung between 65 - 70 degrees every day, which was especially helpful as Dad, Mom, Auntie Betty and I made our way north.  It wasn't below freezing and snowing like last April vacation week.  No way.  Mom was coming and for that very reason we had blue-skied, picture-perfect WARM days!  Phew.  Teeming with gratitude.

Plus, we determined that Betty hasn't stepped foot in Vermont since I was about 9 years old (give or take).  Do the math.  That was a really long time ago!  She came with piles, and I mean piles of presents that Christmas long ago.  She also came with my beloved Uncle Pete who as a warm-weather man quite likely hadn't seen snow in years.  As luck would have it, that Christmas we had loads of snow, frigid temps and a crew of kids who pleaded with him and Betty to play outside.  We did get him out there, bright red, hand-knit cap upon his head.  I think he even did some cross country skiing.  Oh, how I adored my Uncle Pete.  It was a magical Christmas indeed.  Grateful once again.

So this April's visit was particularly special and the warm, sunny days were a huge bonus.  What my parents didn't know was that Lise Vander Woude Steeby was also coming.  Lise was the 5th Hazlett kid.  No, she wasn't really one of ours in the true sense, but she claimed us and we claimed her very early on in the Vermont days.  "Can the girl play?" I asked her mom after trudging across the road and knocking on the then unfamiliar door one very cold, snowy day.  From then on, Lise joined the crazy, wacky, lively Hazlett family and she never left.  More than 40 years later she remains one of us, and for that we are especially grateful.

This year's April vacation began with a flurry of long ago tales from Saxton's River days, as well as long overdue catching up on where our lives are now.  Laughter abounded as memories tumbled out.  Lise told about the time that Dad suited us all up head to toe in snow gear, waxed sets of cross-country skis for himself and four kids (Mia was too little then and Mom was surely glad for a few moments of quiet), and led us all up Hartley Hill for a snow adventure through the woods on an unchartered, freshly fallen snow trail.  Within no time, Patrick was complaining, everyone was wet with sweat, and I'm certain a few others were grumbling to turn back.  Nope.  Dad forged ahead under heavily snow-covered branches and led us on a skiing escapade like no other.  I'm sure the beauty was lost on us all at the time, but I sure am grateful Lise remembers this story as it's a treasure today.

I have to say that some of the best stories came from Dad and Betty, some were familiar and some quite new.  Dad and Betty talked about growing up in Walpole, playing baseball in nearby fields.  Betty remembers always being glad that Dad "picked her" to play on his team.... not necessarily because she was his sister, but because she was a damn good ball player.  They told tales about walking down to Charlie Flower's convenience store and depositing penny candy into their pockets (or along the inside of their pant waistlines - Betty's technique), while Charlie made bets in the back room.  Stealing?  Really?  Yes.  Stealing.  Loved it.  On summer days, to make a little money they picked (stole?) apples and blueberries from nearby farms and sold them to earn a little summer income.  They laughed hard as they told these stories, and we laughed along with them.

A trip to Ben and Jerry's and a stop by Bernie Sander's campaign headquarters rounded out the visit.  Unfortunately, Bernie and his signature ice cream were unavailable to Dad, which quite honestly was a blow, but we managed.  Ben and Jerry's had a way of softening that blow in the unique way that only those two ice cream rock stars can.   That, coupled with gorgeous Vermont views, unmistakable love and cherished trips down memory lane, made it all worthwhile.  We were grateful for every moment and then some.

Country Fairs, Girlie Shows and Moving Onward

Bob and I had an early-bird dinner with my folks tonight.  It was an upbeat, easy supper for us all.  I assured Dad that I was eager to get started on our next post.  Alongside two pages of handwritten notes given to me several days ago, I've had this next storyline rumbling around my brain.  You see, in the grand scheme of things Chelsea was a fairly short stint, and the growing Hazlett clan was about to shift to southern Vermont valleys.  Dad was hoping to earn a few more dollars AND take on a department head role if in fact the stars might align.

A long ago, often-told tale had me wondering....was Dad really looking for his next professional move, or had a small-town country fair forced his hand?

Perhaps (chuckle) their move to the next tucked-away village had something to do with one of Dad's trips to a celebrated local fair.  Over the years, my dad spoke often about the World's Fair which took place each fall in the neighboring town of Tunbridge.  It was a big event, especially fun for the locals as the quiet hum of the Chelsea hills energized a bit when the fair rolled into town.  It should be noted, however, that though this fair was typical in the way of kiddie rides, ring tosses, fried dough, fiddle playing, agricultural blue ribbons, hog races and tractor pulls, Mom quickly added that it was notorious for being the place where the "drunks were chained together to keep them safe".  One stop shopping in hill country.

Dad remembers that the teachers were always asked to volunteer their time at the fair to help out with admission, parking, concessions and the like.  One time, (pre-Judy as Dad recalls...), the teachers had some extra time on their hands so Dad stepped into the "girlie show".  One can only imagine the colorful array of entertainers that graced the dirt floor stage.

Upon exiting the award-winning show, Dad was spotted by a pretty sizable group of his students.  Head down, feet moving, this teacher sighting was never once mentioned.  That said, I suspect those kids had, at minimum, a collective eyebrow raising, and at best a group high five for their beloved history teacher as only a group of adolescent boys might do.

A short time later, two Irish twins in tow, my parents pointed their station wagon south.  I'm not sure that they ever returned to the Tunbridge Fair, nor do I think there was a second girlie-show, but Dad surely remembers his time in Chelsea as some of the best years of his life.  He speaks fondly of the friends they met, and the memories made.  Life carried on, but to this day Chelsea remains deeply embedded in his heart.

Tales of teaching in Bellows Falls, traveling for a year under a Ford Grant, learning about non-graded educational systems, and settling at last into the village of Saxton's River where a family would be raised, are coming real soon...

Top 25 Challenge

Dad and I invite you on a brief detour from his infamous tales of long ago days in Vermont, to step into the present with a challenge of sorts.  Inspired by a beautifully talented, rock-star lass out in L.A., I decided to pose this question to Dad:  "Can you name your top 25 songs and top 25 books?"  With a slight pause, raise of the eyebrow (and wide grin), Dad ever so surely replied, "Hmmmm.... now that could be interesting."  Anyone who knows Dad is fully aware of his love of music and his passion for books of all kinds.  He really does have an eclectic taste in all things music and print.

Now, my L.A. pal is none other than the lovely Aly Trasher, daughter to my dear friend Andrea Trasher who passed away about 17 months ago after a long, brave battle with cancer.  Anyone who knew Andrea understood her to be a woman of strong character who loved the arts, was an amazingly talented educator, a friend and confidante to MANY, and someone who cherished the small blessings in life... music and books being at the very heart of her place in this world.

Aly is soon to embark upon a pilgrimage of sorts... a 150 mile trek on the Camino de Portuguese, along the coastline of Portugal and Spain, to honor her mom in what is sure to be beautifully healing journey, full of yet-to-be-discovered lessons of the heart.

To quote Aly, "I encourage you to share your top 25 with your loved ones, friends, and even people you're just getting to know.  A song can offer a lot of insight into our souls, bring comfort to the ones you love, and even tell your own life story... Be 'brave' and share."

So it is in this light that I invited Dad to take on this same challenge.  Here's his Top 25...  Enjoy!

SONGS

We Shall Overcome, Pete Seeger

Where  Have All The Flowers Gone, Pete Seeger

Amazing Grace

Margaritaville, Jimmy Buffett

Sweet Little Sixteen, Chuck Berry

Danny Boy

Charlie Brown, The Coasters

Don't Be Cruel, Elvis Presley

At The Hop, Danny and the Juniors

This Land Is Your Land, Woody Guthrie

Sweet Georgia Brown, Ben Bernie

Crying In The Chapel, Darrell Glenn

Sweet Baby James, James Taylor

Blue Suede Shoes, Buddy Holly

Love Me Tender, Elvis Presley

Mama Mia, ABBA

How Sweet It Is To Be Loved By You, Marvin Gaye

Chelsea Morning, Joni Mitchell

Mustang Sally, Wilson Pickett

Hey Jude, The Beetles

Sweet  Caroline, Neil Diamond

Old Time Rock and Roll, Bob Seger

Graceland, Paul Simon

Johnny B. Goode, Chuck Berry

See You Later Alligator, Bill Haley and His Comets

BOOKS

The Audacity of Hope, Barack Obama

Roots, Alex Haley

The Grapes of Wrath (and East of Eden), John Steinbeck

Uncle Tom's Cabin, Harriet Beecher Stowe

Five People You Meet In Heaven, Mitch Albom

Roll Me Up And Smoke Me When I Die, Willie Nelson

Bossypants, Tina Fey

The True Patriot, Eric Liu and Nick Hanauer

A People's History of the United States, Howard Zinn

I Am Malala, Malala Yousafzai

A Fighting Chance, Elizabeth Warren

Eyes On The Prize, Juan Williams

An Honorable Defeat, William C. Davis

Marilyn Monroe, Barbara Leaming

Why We Are Liberals, Eric Altermann

Peaceable Kingdom Lost, Kevin Kenny

The Quakers In America, Thomas Hamm

Harriet Tubman - The Road To Freedom, Catherine Clinton

The Hemingses of Monticello, Annette Gordon-Reed

The Vermont People, Peter Miller

The Baseball Hall Of Fame Collection, James Buckley, Jr.

The Zinn Reader, Howard Zinn

Blessed Are The Peacemakers, S. Jonathan Bass and MLK

All Souls:  A Family Story From Southie, Michael Patrick MacDonald

Heart Of A Patriot, Max Cleeland

Love and Marriage (and babies)

Though life seemed to be rolling along in Chelsea, Dad couldn't leave his beloved in Walpole for too much longer.  As young love would have it, Mom joined Dad in Chelsea in the fall of 1965 after being married that same summer (and honeymooning in Bermuda).  It is reported that two Chelsea families took part in the wedding festivities  -  Sid and Marion Gilman, who became like second parents to Dad and Mom, and Mel Somers, Dad's principal.

The lovestruck duo made their home in that small village in a tiny little red house up on a hill.  Mom worked at the Chelsea nursing home, owned by the local favorite Dr. Martin, bringing home a whopping $2.83 an hour.  Dad continued his day gig at Chelsea High.  All was right in the world.

Being the dutiful Catholic kids that they were, riding along on youth and blind innocence, the duo started a family that very next year.   Dad often tells the story of how Mom went into labor, early labor at that, in late May of '66.  Now, first time parents know little of what truly awaits them at the birth, or during the heady, sleep-deprived days that follow.  Of course, at that time fathers were not even permitted in the delivery room.  Little of this concerned Dad much.  What occupied his mind the most was the fact that their health insurance didn't kick in until June 1st.  A May birth just wasn't in the budget.  As the birthing gods would have it, Mike retracted his initial plan to arrive early and made his entrance on June 3.   The"best baby ever" (don't get me started) came with a collective sigh of relief.

With the exception of Mia whose adoption story will be told at another time, all three of us - Michael, Kathleen and Patrick (good 'ole Catholic babies) - were born in June.  I came a year after Michael.  Patrick three years later.... seems I wasn't the easiest baby so they took a little reprieve.  Now, I don't know about you but if you do the math on this June birthday tidbit there must have been something in that back-to-school September wind that brought forth all three June babies.  You be the judge.

Hill Country Sports

Mr. Hazlett, Chelsea High School's young, handsome, eager new U.S. history teacher was also quite the athlete.  Having played sports all through high school himself, as well as during college at St. Anselm, Dad was on the look-out for inspiring young athletes.  As rural, farm country would have it, he learned pretty quickly that Chelsea offered little in the way of sports for kids and certainly had no coaches to inspire the young lot of lads.

Dad took it upon himself to work with the inexperienced high school basketball team, a crew of boys resembling the likes of the Bad News Bears clad in overalls, plaid shirts and muddy boots.  At the risk of stereotyping these country boys, this is the image that comes to mind when I think of the team Dad described to me.

On Saturday mornings, Dad set-up a basketball clinic of sorts for kids in grades 4 - 6, and sometimes the 7th and 8th graders too.  He taught them the basics of basketball and they built a foundation of knowledge and skills to draw upon when they got to high school.  Slowly but surely the boys gained more experience and finesse, and a basketball team was born.

A favorite story of ours growing up was the one Dad told about the time Gramps (Dad's dad) and Nana (Dad's mom) made the trek from Walpole to Chelsea to see his team play.  Curiously enough John and Josie brought Mom along for the ride with them which must have been quite something in those pre-nuptial days.  Riding North with one's future in-laws to the hills of Vermont.... fabulous!

At any rate, Gramps had never before stepped foot in a place like Chelsea, Vermont and the experience seems to have left him questioning his son's judgment.  Now, Gramps was a long-time athlete himself and enjoyed a good game like no other.  He wanted to see how Dad's team was coming along.  During this particular game, as the story goes, a fight broke out between one player on Dad's team (Steve Johnson as Dad recalls), and another player from the other team.  As things escalated, the visiting coach approached Dad and began shouting at him and pushing him around  -  as only sportsmanlike coaches do.  Well, Gramps was having absolutely NONE of that.  In a valiant effort to save his son, he flew out of the stands, grabbed the coach and secured him in a bear hug.  Let's just say the crowd grew quiet, the coach quickly settled down (Gramps was a LARGE man), and Dad was safe once more from the ravages of small-town ruffians.

Dad recalls local folks asking him after the game just who the man was who had leapt from the stands to free him from the assault.  I can only imagine that Dad felt a wee bit dismayed by the public scene, but also quite likely humored and grateful for Gramps' protective display.  In the end, everyone recovered, though Gramps is quoted to say, "Why the hell are you teaching and coaching up here?".  The weekend proceeded without incident and the visitors, Dad's future bride in tow, returned home to the harmony of suburban living.

And so, this young,  handsome, eager new U.S. history teacher and coach resumed his country living along the rolling hills of the Vermont countryside.  The team continued to improve, and since basketball is alive and well in Chelsea today, I credit Dad for getting the ball rolling...

Concluding side note:  
Dad reports that  he paid $1.00 a day for his one-room apartment in the center of town.  Now that was an affordable housing deal like no other, or so the story goes.