News flash. The pecan trees are officially tired and retiring for the next few months. I hesitate to call it winter, because, as we know, there is very little that is identifiable about Houston winters. Other than trees without leaves, that is.
So here we have it. The pecan leaves have turned golden, and with every breeze, we get a shower of yellow outside of our window. Before we moved into our temporary office quarters downstairs, we missed seeing this shower because we were looking out on the tree tops. That has its own advantages in that you could see everything happening on the lawn of the house, but here, we get to see the comings and goings of the visitors and staff (and listen to the very loud window-unit air conditioner).
I do love watching the leaves fall. The gardens seem to be a little confused though. Some of the camellias are already blooming, and the oriental magnolias keep putting on buds like they are trying to. That would make them about 3 months early. Oops.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Curious
When I started this little project some months ago, the initial hope was that it would be a way to communicate with friends and family that I don't see so often. Then I discovered that, while this may have happened when blogging was new, most of that crew has moved on to Facebook, or the even more frenetic Twitter. Part of the distraction for most of us is the reappearance of the school routine which occurred in late August. No matter how far removed from it you believe you might be, we all still find ourselves overwhelmed with this and that little (or big) thing when the school year is in session.
I very seldom remember my dreams, but last night I had one in which I was asked to return to the preschool classroom for a day or two. Time constructs do warp in dreams of course. All was well until I had a child misbehave and had to correct in the age appropriate, NAEYC-approved lingo. Oops! Two years of being away from the classroom, and my collection of phrases for the occasion had floated into the recesses of the education department of my brain. Was I able to retrieve them on the second try, even in my dream-softened state? Absolutely! However, what an interesting happenstance and wake up call!
I have managed to wander away from the initial question though. Is this really a form of communication, or am I writing only for myself? If that's the case, I might be better off just returning to writing in a blank book. The jury is out....
I very seldom remember my dreams, but last night I had one in which I was asked to return to the preschool classroom for a day or two. Time constructs do warp in dreams of course. All was well until I had a child misbehave and had to correct in the age appropriate, NAEYC-approved lingo. Oops! Two years of being away from the classroom, and my collection of phrases for the occasion had floated into the recesses of the education department of my brain. Was I able to retrieve them on the second try, even in my dream-softened state? Absolutely! However, what an interesting happenstance and wake up call!
I have managed to wander away from the initial question though. Is this really a form of communication, or am I writing only for myself? If that's the case, I might be better off just returning to writing in a blank book. The jury is out....
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Moving
Michael Buble on the computer. Boxes stacked everywhere. Catching phone calls in between throwing only the most necessary of files into boxes. Marking said boxes. Shredding. Stacking.
Checking e-mail while throwing more files into more boxes. Escaping to the break room, which will soon be our office. Ha! Where will we escape then?
We were informed last week that we would be moving this week. Downstairs. To make room for all of the security equipment for the new visitor's center to be installed... Makes perfect sense in theory, but in practice, it really creates a giant hassle. Oh well.
In other news, it is a gorgeous autumn day! Moves will always happen and will never be easy.
We will truly, truly miss our view of the gardens and the bayou, but all of the beauty will still be there. We'll just have to be a bit more creative in enjoying it.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Restoration
Interesting experience yesterday. Many times in my life, I have used an escape to Galveston to "get out of Dodge", so to speak. It was about getting a complete change of scene, sitting or walking on the beach and stretching my vision out to the horizon, listening to the waves break and the wind whistle, taking pictures of the dunes, or whatever else struck my fancy. Ever since the destruction of Hurricane Ike in 2008, it had been very hard for me to imagine going back. I knew I would, but the timing would have to be right. Yesterday was a perfectly clear, bright, crisp, Texas autumn day, and with no pressing responsibilities hanging over (or, choosing to ignore those for the call of the ocean), I took off on the adventure.
First clue should have been the number of bikers out for a Saturday ride - in groups. Second clue should have been the sign on one of the clubs closer to the causeway saying "Welcome Bikers".
Third and final clue was riding the Bolivar Ferry with about 30 Harleys in each of the outside lanes, with all the riders dressed in leather, some sporting patches from having attended events all across America. And all having a blast in a non-threatening way.
This is what the Lonestar Rally looks like. Thousands upon thousands of motorbikes cruising along the seawall in Galveston, congregating in certain spots, motors alternately screaming, roaring, rumbling, and thundering. What an assault on the senses!
This is not exactly what I had expected, but it had its own strange merits. It was a distraction from what was the new vision of Galveston. Yes, there had been obvious incredible destruction and there was much that was still boarded up and quiet in comparison. Hotels closed and fenced off. Great piles of debris yet to be removed. Many of the majestic oaks along Broadway were gone or only stumps cut off at street level, and many of the rest were dying skeletons covered with mosses and tiny clusters of suffering leaves. Trees throughout the city looked like we were in the dead of winter. East Beach was totally reconfigured to the point where it was unrecognizable - left me wondering what it looks like when the tide is in.
However, there is also the sense of the beaches being swept clean by nature - a sort of re-birth out of the harshness. I guess that aspect may not be appreciated by those who prefer the more tourist-driven look, but perhaps, at least for awhile, it gives the island a chance to re-build keeping in mind the forces of nature. I have the feeling that the recovery in Galveston will look different from what existed before, and that does not have to be a totally evil thing. Just gives you one more memory to carry around in your head and heart, and a reminder to keep the same heart open to what good may be ahead.
First clue should have been the number of bikers out for a Saturday ride - in groups. Second clue should have been the sign on one of the clubs closer to the causeway saying "Welcome Bikers".
Third and final clue was riding the Bolivar Ferry with about 30 Harleys in each of the outside lanes, with all the riders dressed in leather, some sporting patches from having attended events all across America. And all having a blast in a non-threatening way.
This is what the Lonestar Rally looks like. Thousands upon thousands of motorbikes cruising along the seawall in Galveston, congregating in certain spots, motors alternately screaming, roaring, rumbling, and thundering. What an assault on the senses!
This is not exactly what I had expected, but it had its own strange merits. It was a distraction from what was the new vision of Galveston. Yes, there had been obvious incredible destruction and there was much that was still boarded up and quiet in comparison. Hotels closed and fenced off. Great piles of debris yet to be removed. Many of the majestic oaks along Broadway were gone or only stumps cut off at street level, and many of the rest were dying skeletons covered with mosses and tiny clusters of suffering leaves. Trees throughout the city looked like we were in the dead of winter. East Beach was totally reconfigured to the point where it was unrecognizable - left me wondering what it looks like when the tide is in.
However, there is also the sense of the beaches being swept clean by nature - a sort of re-birth out of the harshness. I guess that aspect may not be appreciated by those who prefer the more tourist-driven look, but perhaps, at least for awhile, it gives the island a chance to re-build keeping in mind the forces of nature. I have the feeling that the recovery in Galveston will look different from what existed before, and that does not have to be a totally evil thing. Just gives you one more memory to carry around in your head and heart, and a reminder to keep the same heart open to what good may be ahead.
Friday, October 23, 2009
The child in me
"The child is in me still and sometimes not so still." — Fred Rogers (The World According to Mister Rogers)
Let's see... How many times in my years of teaching did I get to answer the question, "Are you married to Mister Rogers?" Or how many time did I give up correcting a child when he/she called me Mr. Rogers? There just seemed to be something terribly difficult about getting out the "rses" part of the sound of Mrs.
Doesn't matter. If there was any allusion to the Mister Rogers in any of that, I would have taken it as a compliment. There was something about his show that, yes, some adults found cloying, but of course, it was not directed at the adults except in the sense of example. It was about having meaningful conversations with young children about things that interested them, or about what they were thinking or feeling - helping them to put words with what they were learning. Takes a lot of patience.
I think it actually takes patience with adults also. You never know on what level a stranger is coming into a conversation. If only we could all be listeners a bit before feeling the need to be the talker. It takes telling the child in us to be still just for a bit, and considering that person before judging them. Who knows what we could learn? Maybe not much, but maybe plenty.
By the way, I consider myself to have the heart of a child. Sure, it has all of the adult burdens that can be so diffucult to bear, but if I could not have the gentle faith of a child, I'm not sure how I could survive.
Let's see... How many times in my years of teaching did I get to answer the question, "Are you married to Mister Rogers?" Or how many time did I give up correcting a child when he/she called me Mr. Rogers? There just seemed to be something terribly difficult about getting out the "rses" part of the sound of Mrs.
Doesn't matter. If there was any allusion to the Mister Rogers in any of that, I would have taken it as a compliment. There was something about his show that, yes, some adults found cloying, but of course, it was not directed at the adults except in the sense of example. It was about having meaningful conversations with young children about things that interested them, or about what they were thinking or feeling - helping them to put words with what they were learning. Takes a lot of patience.
I think it actually takes patience with adults also. You never know on what level a stranger is coming into a conversation. If only we could all be listeners a bit before feeling the need to be the talker. It takes telling the child in us to be still just for a bit, and considering that person before judging them. Who knows what we could learn? Maybe not much, but maybe plenty.
By the way, I consider myself to have the heart of a child. Sure, it has all of the adult burdens that can be so diffucult to bear, but if I could not have the gentle faith of a child, I'm not sure how I could survive.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Dear Deer
At the intersection of two well-traveled streets in our neighborhood stands a faux-topiary deer guarding the corner. He is "faux" only in the sense that he's covered with artificial ivy - otherwise the topiary rings true. For many years, he has been the harbinger of the seasons in Spring Valley, as his owners decorate him in keeping with whatever Hallmark Holiday is upcoming. I took notice of him today because of the paper pumpkin lantern hanging over his head.
Now I am sure that there are those around who would not appreciate the funkiness of having a dressed-up deer in their neighborhood - not to mention the Happy Buddha in our Jewish neighbors' yard, or the giant concrete Easter basket and hundreds of artificial flowers and novelties in ceramic pots in the yard next to that, or the 7 ft. tall Kung Fu Panda mid-kick, or the giant floral metal sculptures scattered about. After all, it seems that most every one of the 1950's 3-bedroom 2-bath "cottages" in the area are being torn down and replaced by 2-story gargantuan creations selling for a million dollars. However, I'm glad I live in a community that still has a sense of humor, for however much longer...
Here's to the deer!
Now I am sure that there are those around who would not appreciate the funkiness of having a dressed-up deer in their neighborhood - not to mention the Happy Buddha in our Jewish neighbors' yard, or the giant concrete Easter basket and hundreds of artificial flowers and novelties in ceramic pots in the yard next to that, or the 7 ft. tall Kung Fu Panda mid-kick, or the giant floral metal sculptures scattered about. After all, it seems that most every one of the 1950's 3-bedroom 2-bath "cottages" in the area are being torn down and replaced by 2-story gargantuan creations selling for a million dollars. However, I'm glad I live in a community that still has a sense of humor, for however much longer...
Here's to the deer!
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Auto attachment
Ha! You thought it had something to do with computers, IT, coding, word processing, or something of that sort, when in actuality, it was about auto---mobiles!
Why is it that some of us become so attached to our vehicles? And not necessarily every one of our vehicles, but only certain ones. For instance, I had never been one to bestow a name on my car until my children decided that we had to, and then it became a process somewhat like naming the family dog. It always seemed to have something to do with the nature of the beast. The silver Caravan became The Silver Bullet, Stephen's old Suburban became The Beast, The red Expedition became Thor, and my CRV became Scooter because he scooted in comparison to my lumbering but incredibly smooth Suburban. Then there was Stephen's truck that took him through 5 years of college and a year beyond, The Greanie Meanie - big. green Z71 that roared down the highway and across every kind of terrain possible (and surely across some that I might have thought impossible because that is the way of vehicles that are not always under the scrutiny of the mom).
I think when you give something a name and live with its ups and downs for years, it personifies the object to where you truly feel grief upon its loss. No melodrama intended here. I was crushed to have contributed to Scooter's injuries (and yes, I admit that part of it was the whole monetary issue) two weeks ago. And now we have to face the demise of The Greanie Meanie.
The numbers and the emissions laws have conspired against us, and it seems the Texas version of Cash for Clunkers will be the end of the long and winding road for him.
Aha! But a new birth is awaiting! An adoption! A Rescue Wagon lies waiting for us somewhere, I'm sure. We'll keep you posted.
Why is it that some of us become so attached to our vehicles? And not necessarily every one of our vehicles, but only certain ones. For instance, I had never been one to bestow a name on my car until my children decided that we had to, and then it became a process somewhat like naming the family dog. It always seemed to have something to do with the nature of the beast. The silver Caravan became The Silver Bullet, Stephen's old Suburban became The Beast, The red Expedition became Thor, and my CRV became Scooter because he scooted in comparison to my lumbering but incredibly smooth Suburban. Then there was Stephen's truck that took him through 5 years of college and a year beyond, The Greanie Meanie - big. green Z71 that roared down the highway and across every kind of terrain possible (and surely across some that I might have thought impossible because that is the way of vehicles that are not always under the scrutiny of the mom).
I think when you give something a name and live with its ups and downs for years, it personifies the object to where you truly feel grief upon its loss. No melodrama intended here. I was crushed to have contributed to Scooter's injuries (and yes, I admit that part of it was the whole monetary issue) two weeks ago. And now we have to face the demise of The Greanie Meanie.
The numbers and the emissions laws have conspired against us, and it seems the Texas version of Cash for Clunkers will be the end of the long and winding road for him.
Aha! But a new birth is awaiting! An adoption! A Rescue Wagon lies waiting for us somewhere, I'm sure. We'll keep you posted.
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