Friday, October 2, 2009

In your what?

When I was growing up, my mother and several other adults told me never to put anything smaller than my elbow into my ears. I passed this bit of wisdom on to my children and my students, but apparently that advice is lost on more than a few brave and inquisitive youngsters.
During a recent and rather informal teacher meeting, my friend was asked about her sick child. “I took him to the doctor and it’s the normal stuff; sinus infection and cough.”
All the teachers nodded, as they were dealing with runny noses and all kinds of hacking and sniffling in their classrooms.
“But there was a really embarrassing moment,” she continued. “When the doctor looked in his ear, he kind of grimaced and then with a really thin forceps, he pulled out a small plastic piece of a toy.”
Every teacher reacted differently, but all the responses ended with a laugh. The interesting thing was that everyone had a similar story. Apparently children are fascinated with body cavities and what exactly fits in them. It seems that the only way to know, unequivocally, is to insert various objects. It must also be true that their curiosity is more highly developed than their memory because things inserted often stay inserted.
One teacher related a story about marbles in the nose. Yes, you read correctly. I’m talking in the plural, as in more than one marble in each nostril. And . . . this particular child plied his nose with many different items over the course of the school year. His curiosity was not satisfied by one experience. He needed several trials in his experiment, but now he can tell you, without question, that the tires from a matchbox car are the hardest to retrieve.
I had an experience many years ago when I was teaching kindergarten. Leah was an adorable little girl and when her mother came to pick her up for a doctor appointment she informed me that Leah probably had an ear infection and would be back at school after 24 hours. When she called that afternoon, I have to admit I was taken aback. Leah had put a bean in her ear and the doctor surmised that after several hair washings, the bean sprouted. That sprout was pushing on Leah’s eardrum and causing quite a bit of pain. I was a bit guilty on that count as I’m sure she got the bean from the measuring center in my classroom, but truly. . . . Would you have guessed that instead of measuring the beans and counting the beans, a little girl would be inserting beans . . . . IN HER EAR????
Another teacher turned around at lunch one day and saw several girls leaning over a little boy. Her immediate reaction was, “Oh no, someone is hurt?” As she neared the area, she heard one of the girls say, “Eeeww. . . ” NOT a good sign! However, when she got there, she realized that the situation was not life threatening, although oxygen must have been in short supply. The young man had taken several tiny pebbles from the garden and was counting them as he stuffed his nose and ears. That’s not the oddest thing. He told the teacher that he was trying to beat his record. We know the record was 7, but no one dared ask how they were divided. We called his parents and they were aware that he had done it before at a time when there was construction being done on his street and there was a lot of gravel around. His mother sighed and said, “I thought the emergency room doctor made an impression on him, but I guess not.”
A couple of years ago two middle school boys were having a contest to see who could get the most grapes in their mouth. We put a stop to that when we realized that although we all knew the Heimlich maneuver, no one wanted to use it. I asked, “What were you thinking?” The response was quick and matter of fact. “We wanted to know how much “mass” we could put in our mouths.” Was that evidence enough that we should not teach 6th grade students physics? Perhaps.
Some of our teachers decided to do more with health and biology in an effort to answer some of the questions the children have about their bodies, but I have to admit those lessons are lost on the child who needs to find out firsthand and frankly, that’s the way we teach. It’s all about discovery and hands-on and asking questions and finding answers. Unfortunately, when it comes to the human body, it’s not always politically correct or even appropriate, so what can you do? Well, you just have to laugh! The very thing they live with and inside of every day is a total mystery that requires years of exploration. Children continue on their quest of self discovery for many years and as their bodies change, new and unusual situations occur. It really is a never ending journey.
I recently spent some time with my parents in Florida. It was quite amusing when I saw my 80+ year-old mother talking into my father’s pants pocket. “Mom?” I asked. “What are you doing?”
“Well, your father puts his hearing aid in his pocket instead of in his ear, so I thought that maybe he could hear me if I talked into his pants. He certainly doesn’t hear me when I talk to his face.”
My father responded by saying, “What did you say? – I really think my ears are blocked”
“Maybe,” I yelled “. . . you have a foreign object in there.”
“That darn hearing aid is the only foreign object that’s been in there recently.”
So, in my father’s defense I said, “You know mom, the hearing aid is NOT bigger than his elbow.”

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Second Hand Treasures

Teachers are packrats; not amateurs, but true, professional packrats. There isn’t a piece of junk, or a can or a container and especially anything used to package or transport eggs that they can throw away without having a “to-do” about possible uses. So, in August, without trepidation, they arrive with their truckloads of things, and the move-in begins. In addition to all of their accumulated materials, they move in idea books, games that help teach, favorite items from years past and wheelbarrows full of who knows what. The closets are never large enough and there are never enough shelves. It is a storage nightmare – the more space we have, the more stuff we collect. Teachers have been reduced to filling the trunks of their cars with treasures and their garages with better treasures. One teacher was caught going through the dumpster after another teacher actually cleared some things out. We don’t throw things away in front of her any more; in fact we don’t even talk about cleaning in front of her. In fairness, I must admit, she did build a working radio using wire she found that day. Another teacher showed up with a car full of “trash”. It seems that she was driving through a subdivision, noticed a chair at the end of someone’s driveway and stopped to see what else they were throwing away. Lo and behold, she found a record player, an old French Horn and several canisters. I thought it was odd because we don’t have vinyl records at school anymore and the canisters were a little on the battered side, but I didn’t say a word. Sometimes only the trash collecting teacher can see the uses for other people’s discarded goods.

Once I went to a teacher friend’s house; and her dining room table was stacked with assorted piles. I’m not always as tactful as I should be, so I asked, “What is going on in the dining room?” She was actually puzzled by the question. “It’s school stuff.”
“School stuff?”
“Yes,” she replied “I ran out of space in the classroom and I didn’t know what else to do with the stuff. Anyway. . . .,” she continued, “Who uses formal dining rooms anymore?”
That was a question I couldn’t answer. I certainly don’t use mine. So, I said, “I just like to keep my special things in the dining room because it’s the place that stays just the way I want and no one ever disturbs it.
The twinkle in her eye spoke volumes and she answered, “Precisely! These teacher magazines, papers, ideas, boxes, and cartons of stuff are exactly what is precious to me and I leave it in the dining room because no one disturbs it.”
I asked her what happened to keeping things in the trunk of the car.
Her reply? “It’s full.”
“What about the garage?” I asked.
“My husband thinks his car belongs in there, but I share the other half with the lawn mower and weed eater.”
“Do you think that maybe you should rent a storage area?”
“Done,” she answered quickly.
Frankly, I didn’t want to hear anymore.

I know the old saying about one person’s trash is another person’s treasure. Teachers certainly have a knack for seeing treasures when others can not.
Finding the treasure is a good thing. After all, if a set of battered canisters looks good, imagine how adorable a naughty child must be or how cute a child who needs special attention must look. It’s the way teachers are – finding the nuggets of treasure in everything and everyone.
For example, the first thing Byron’s teacher said, in a loud whisper, when she brought him into the office was, “Isn’t he the cutest thing?” Well, Byron was her second grade treasure and he couldn’t figure out why everyone was so distraught about the peanut butter and jelly sandwich IN the plastic sandwich bag being flushed down the toilet. His teacher knew it was a naughty thing, but she couldn’t talk to him without laughing. I was the one who had to put on a serious face and explain that flushing anything except bodily waste was unacceptable. It didn’t help when he reminded me that the sandwich was just several swallows and a couple of hours away from being appropriate for flushing. As he spoke, I realized that this little “nugget” was stealing my heart, just as he had stolen his teacher’s.

Some teachers find goodness in strange animals, too. We have many wonderful classroom pets that everyone finds warm, fuzzy and lovable. And then there’s the science lab with its tarantula, odd frogs, lizards, geckos, meal worms and a host of other unusual “pets”. They have, for the most part, been donated to the school by mothers who changed their minds about having them in the house. These second-hand critters are my friend, Lollie’s, treasures. She can make a single new habitat teach a multitude of lessons.

What, you may ask, are my treasures? That’s easy. I watch teachers take each diamond in the rough, each part of something or someone and work their magic. I am the observer as each egg carton becomes an art project and other unusual items become teaching tools. I have a front row seat as each child is transformed into a lifelong learner. I even learned to treasure that crazy, battered French horn when a child turned it into a planter. Who’d have guessed that the radio made from dumpster wire would be the beginning of an entire ham radio club? And when that dining room table, full of stuff, is harvested and modified, it is sure to reap treasures untold. As for Byron – he’s one of my most beloved treasures.
With twenty-five teachers and two hundred children, I guess you could say I have a gold mine.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

My Favorite Day of the Year

What do you get when you combine lots of excitement, a little anxiety, a good breakfast, and new shoes? You get my MOST favorite day of the year. . . THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL! There’s nothing like new crayons, fresh faces, well rested teachers, and those great “first day of school” outfits. The classrooms are ready and as clean as they’ll be all year. The bulletin boards are a peek at what’s in store for the next month and the books are just waiting to be opened and read. Each August is a new beginning – a time to put aside all the past and start again.
Now, no one said that the first day is free of what I sensitively refer to as “situations.” Take, for example, the criers. You get the crying children who are fine less than five minutes after mom leaves and you get the crying moms who are a wreck for a week. You get the dads who get a little misty and you get the grandmothers who, surprisingly, rarely cry. Sometimes it’s hard to tell which are the happy tears and which are the “Oh no, what am I going to do with my day” tears. I always tell moms who don’t work outside the home, “Go get a manicure,” or “Clean out your closet” or . . . and this one works miracles; “you know, this means you can actually have some private time in the bathroom or carry on a phone conversation without interruption.” Then you have the parents of middle school children. They do not cry. . . they drop their children off and thank their lucky stars that summer is over, leaving quickly and I’m sure meeting friends for celebratory activities.
Teachers often find themselves involved in countless other first day “situations”. There are the students who can’t wait to get started because as much as they looked forward to summer, it got boring quickly. You get the students who can’t wait to get their new crayons with a sharp point and no breakage, and the students who can’t wait to tell you about their summer, talking non-stop. Teachers have new lunchboxes to see, new backpacks to break in and new smiles to love. There are questions from students and parents, there is laughter, and the hustle and bustle is electrifying. It’s just about as good as it gets.
Then there are those “situations” that no one can predict. A few years ago a young boy, new to our school, arrived. He was adorable with curly blond hair, beautiful eyes and a charming personality. He looked like he was about 7, but his vocabulary and speech patterns were very advanced. When the teachers went to the yard to collect their students, he got in the middle school line. The teacher politely confirmed that this was the middle school line and he stepped right up. She added him to her list and off they went to start their day. Noticing that our little friend stood amidst a sea of much taller students, I asked the teacher about him. She said that he had assured her he was an eighth grade student and since he was so bright she assumed there was a growth problem. There was no growth problem. There was a “student who outsmarted the teacher” problem. Our sweet little boy with the curly blond hair belonged in second grade. He was kindly delivered to the second grade teacher arguing his case the whole way; an obvious lawyer in the making
On another first day of school we were greeted with television cameras. I immediately ran to put on extra make-up, compose myself and rushed out to meet them. The reporter wanted to do a story on the first day of school. That was great news and I was proud they’d chosen us. “We’d like to do a story we’re calling KID’S FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL.”
“Fabulous,” I answered.
“Where can I find them?” He asked politely.
Thinking that this wasn’t the brightest of reporters, I responded slowly, “They are in the classrooms.” As we entered the first room, he looked a little confused and frankly, that caused me a little confusion.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“These aren’t the kids I was talking about.”
“They’re not? Would you like to film younger children?”
“No,” he answered. “I was talking about kids as in baby goats – the kind that eat homework and cause mayhem. I’m told they help teach children all kinds of things.” While it wasn’t unusual to have people interested in our petting zoo, he did catch me off guard. As we walked I filled him in on the kinds of things our animals do for our children. He happily filmed BOTH kinds of “kids” and we saw ourselves on the nightly news.
Another first day of school was made memorable by our difficult, spoiled rotten goose, Boss. Boss did not like me and each time I walked across campus he would chase me, honking and snorting and biting. He was plain obnoxious. It was not a good situation and when I complained to my real “boss”, she laughed and said I’d have to figure out a better way to get along with my co-workers. Boss was NOT a co-worker, although he did keep morale high as he gave everyone a great laugh while chasing me. On this particular first day of school Boss decided to expand his horizons and pick on another innocent woman. . . the mom of a new student. He came out of nowhere as she was showing her child the playground, ran over to his unsuspecting new victim and bit her right on the thigh. She was hopping around on one well heeled pump, screaming and using her purse in self defense. It was a good thing my friend Travis came to her rescue (he never came to mine). He grabbed the goose by the neck and escorted the darn honker to the horse stables. I was quietly thankful – Boss was put into immediate retirement and spent his remaining days in Tomball where he was the king of over 60 acres.
As I wait for our first week of the new school year, I’m filled with excitement. It’s the wonderment of childhood that fills my heart and the opportunity to turn that wonderment into knowledge feeds my soul. I just love being an educator!!!!

Wednesday, August 5, 2009


I’ve known this for years, but the reasons are elusive. For those of you who haven’t heard. . Band-Aids can cure almost all ills. They are good for the obvious cuts, scratches and scrapes, but they can also cure rashes, itches, bumps and those formidable invisible boo-boos that, without a Band-Aid, are sure to kill anyone under seven. The thing that stumps me is that children need band-Aids, want Band-Aids, crave band aids only to scream louder when the band aids are ripped off. The manufacturers have made Band-Aids with super heroes, Band-Aids with cartoon characters, flower power Band-Aids, Band-Aids that are ouchless, Band-Aids that breathe and there are even Band-Aids you can paint or spray on. It’s a treasure trove of ways to make our youngsters feel better.
We all hope, wish and pray that all our children ever need is a Band-Aid to make their hurts go away. Their mental and physical health is the supreme gift. It makes everything else possible. So, if our children are blessed with good health, how do we communicate that nothing less than their best is acceptable?
As the mother of two young women I know that my ability to make everything better wanes as they get older. Combined with the fact that their problems become more complex, you soon realize that the hard work and time spent preparing them for adulthood was extraordinarily worthwhile. It merits a big swipe of the forehead and a loud “Whew!” Believe me, it wasn’t always a walk in the park. There were dramatic outbursts, crying, screaming, threatening and door slamming. And my kids were great kids! They, in spite of my “meanness” and “unfairness,” are amazing people. So I’m often asked, “What did you do?”
First of all, they came to me with their own set of individual gifts and personality traits. I got lucky on that count. They also had their own set of challenges. They were stubborn, manipulative and occasionally downright disrespectful. They grew, in fact, into teenagers. Often I felt that the punishment affected me more than them. It was certainly harder on me. I had to stay in when they had to stay in. I had to listen to the crying and last longer than they did. I had to stick to my guns even after the thousandth time they asked me to change my mind. I had to NOT kill them while WE were suffering the consequences of a bad choice THEY made.
So now I have the opportunity to help others get through the years of child rearing. After I get beyond the sympathy I have for parents, I remember the feelings of pride. It’s got to be the greatest plan ever! Children grow inside a mother. She feels them kick and move and can’t wait to meet her new baby, face to face. The pain of childbirth is replaced in seconds with love and gratitude. The newborn is totally reliant on mom and dad for EVERYTHING! The nights of sleeplessness are replaced with the baby’s first smile and first words. Children then become adorable and funny. They provide endless entertainment. Parents get to see the world again through new eyes and partake in each “first” their child encounters. There is the first step, the first tinkle in the toilet, the first day of completely dry big girl or big boy pants. Those firsts are followed by the first day of kindergarten, the first goal in soccer or hit in T-ball, learning to tie their shoes, learning to read, and the first school play. Parents delight in the lives of their children. It seems like our very existence was meant to parent. And then those sweet things wake up one morning and they are teenagers. By then, and this is where the plan really starts working, we are hopelessly in love with our children even though they can make an hour seem like days and an ordinary day seem like a soap opera. We put up with their ridiculous antics, try to guide them as best we can and they still seem like they are working hard at making us miserable. Something takes over their bodies and their brains function in a strange and unusual way. The phone is attached to their ear, their fingers can’t seem to do anything but text, and the computer is their world.
Teenagers can have a dozen or two people that they are Instant Messaging with and they keep up with each conversation, including the one on the phone, but they can’t seem to get a one page paper done with any degree of clarity.
They can manipulate you, all the while seeming logical, yet they have trouble figuring out how to get their rooms clean. They sulk, they cry, they seem depressed, their very lives are a drama, yet they don’t want to be in the school play. They can’t wait to get out of the house to be with their friends because, all of a sudden, parents don’t know ANYTHING! They get more expensive and less appreciative.
There are respites from the challenges of living with a teenager. There are more wonderful firsts; the first honor roll, their first crush, the first formal dress or tuxedo, the first dance, followed by graduations, college acceptances and first jobs. It’s quite a journey, full of ups and downs. It’s the hardest job in the world, if done well. It’s the most rewarding, too.
And when they leave to live the life you’ve spent years preparing them for, you are left with an empty nest and memories. You are laid off from the best job you ever had, or at the very least, the job description undergoes a major change. You miss them and you miss being their full time Mom, all the while being proud of who they’ve become. It’s exciting and sad, and it leaves a wound that doesn’t heal easily. Oh dear, I think I need a Band-Aid. I’m going to put it right over my heart.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

The Power of Respect

I’d heard the sound before. . . . sitting in my car at a stop light. It was coming from the car in the next lane. It looked like the young man in the car was listening to his radio, seemingly unaware of the low guttural sound emanating from his vehicle. He was sitting proud and working hard at looking cool.
“Gee Whiz,” I thought. It seemed that if one had the finances to enjoy a very spiffy car, they would see about that noise. It was obviously a sign of something going very wrong; certainly a problem worthy of a professional mechanic.
This weekend, when I was working in my garden, my quiet space where I relax and putter among the plants, I was struck by an inner vibration; one that started in my head, went straight to my rib cage, then down to my toes. It was rhythmic and never ending. It was the sound of that car in the next lane. I tried very hard to ignore it, but it just wasn’t possible. Where was the intrusion coming from? Why wasn’t my quiet time in my garden being respected? After all, I’m a hard working woman. I deserve to go into the privacy of my backyard and enjoy the calm; to communicate with nature and restore my inner self. It’s not asking too much.
Now, just so I don’t sound like a complete moron, I want you to know that I do know about the bass lever on a radio and I do know that teenagers, especially the boys love the “bottom end.” I’m talking music here.
When I’d had enough, I went in search of the noise. I passed my husband who was busy pressure washing the porch. It wasn’t him. I passed by the roar of a lawn mower. It wasn’t that. I followed the movement of the earth and ended up in the driveway of my neighbor; a young man polishing his very beautiful blue car. It was clear that he was enjoying the noise. So, here I was face to face with one of my new neighbors. They’d moved in sometime over the winter. I introduced myself and he shook my hand and told me his name was Marcus. Marcus is a nice looking kid and it was immediately apparent that he’d been taught extraordinary manners.
“It’s nice to meet you, Marcus,” I said in a professional way. I wasn’t about to let his manners get in the way of my inner peace. “Marcus, we need to talk. Your music is making a very odd sound in my backyard. It’s actually worse over there then it is standing here next to it.”
Marcus couldn’t have been more delightful. “No problem,” he said. “I’ll turn it down.”
I felt the need to explain myself. “You know Marcus, I’m old.”
He smiled and repeated himself. “It’s fine, really.”
I thanked him and went back to enjoy the peace of my garden. As I began pulling weeds and rearranging the impatiens, I realized that my new friend had not only turned the music down; he had turned it off completely. I started to feel bad. Marcus had just as much right to enjoy his yard and his home as I did. Surely he could listen to his music and we could find some degree of compromise. I peeked over the side of the fence and said, “Marcus, I really didn’t mean for you to turn it off completely.”
“I know, but it’s okay,” he said. At this point I wanted to go over there and turn the music up so the whole neighborhood could rock to the intrusion of that awful sound. Marcus had won me over.
Now, I like to think of myself as open minded and having tastes of an eclectic nature. I like many kinds of music from classical to country to classic rock and most especially Broadway music. Surely I can find something good about the music Marcus likes. I don’t have to love it. On my quest to appreciate this new sound I found myself thinking about the type of person that stereotypically listens to it. Wait a minute! Admittedly, I don’t know Marcus. We’ve only had one encounter. But I have a good intuition about people and Marcus doesn’t fit the picture in my mind of a kid who listens to that stuff. So, in addition to finding something positive about the sound, I need to work on my attitude. If my mother could do it, so can I. She thought the Beatles were evil, if you can imagine that and don’t ask her about the Rolling Stones.
Marcus started me thinking about something else, too. He took me from an angry woman to a blithering idiot anxious to make him happy and willing to try to enjoy whatever they call that sound. How did he do it? Well, I can tell you. He did it by having good manners and respect. He was, in a nutshell, absolutely adorable and eager to please. I’m sure he was almost done with polishing his car. It looked brand, spanking new. I’m also sure he’s a typical teenager; not always perfect. But man oh man. . . . he taught me a lesson that I needed to relearn. Respect and courtesy are mighty powerful.
So, I’m issuing a formal warning. If you are sitting at a red light and there’s an unusual sound coming from a van with an older woman sitting in the driver’s seat, it’s me! I’m on my way to the music store and I might look into a new sound system, too. I’m officially expanding my horizons.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Just Asking!

They caught a blue lobster in Canada. According to reports, a blue lobster is only found once in every two million catches. Donald, as they are calling him, is now living the life of Riley in a restaurant tank and apparently attracting a large audience. He is special!!
Maybe I’m a cynic, but I can’t help wondering how the lobster community treated Donald. Did they make fun of him? Was he the bait of bullies across the seas? Was he the last lobster picked to be on the clamball team? Was he kept from certain, special places in the ocean because of his color? Were his rights somehow different from all the other lobsters? Was he allowed to marry?
Donald is different. He is rare and because he’s rare, he’s being treated as something of a crustacean celebrity by us, BUT. . . . What if Donald was human? Just asking!

Monday, July 13, 2009

Me? Misunderstood?

I like to consider myself a pretty good communicator. In fact it’s one of the things I do best. I guess that’s part of being a teacher at heart. I’m much better at communicating in person; lots of hand movements, facial expressions and the occasional total body gesture. It keeps the audience, whether it is children or adults, on their toes and interested, but I also love to write. The written word lets the reader have some ownership of the story, interpreting and accenting thoughts as they see fit. Having bragged about my skills at communicating, you can imagine my surprise when I am totally misinterpreted. It happens more often than I’d like to admit.
Each summer our camp has a theme. Last summer we were cruising and with each new week, we stopped in a different port of call, integrating cultural information into the camp activities. It was lots of fun and the campers enjoyed it. In an effort to bring our good news to the public we built wooden cruise ships and put them around our property. Each week we put another sign on the ships telling about our plans for the summer. After a few weeks I received a call from a woman who sounded like a very sweet senior citizen. She explained that she promised her neighbor boy she would send him on a church trip during the summer. Lo and behold, the church trip was cancelled for reasons unknown. The woman and her young friend were very disappointed – that is until she saw our signs. Her prayers were answered. She was going to send her neighbor on a cruise. Our conversation went like this:
“Now tell me, what cruise line are you using?”
“No,no,” I answered. “It’s not a real cruise, it’s just our theme for the summer.”
“Well, I think the theme is an excellent one. Do you leave from Galveston?”
“No, no. We don’t leave the campus. We just pretend to stop in different ports of call.”
“Oh my! I’ll have to tell his mother to get him a passport, post haste!”
“No, no. . . . We only go in our own minds.”
“This is marvelous . . . expanding the mind is icing on the cake, isn’t it?”
It was at this point I realized that my own personal cruise ship was sinking. My sweet woman had her mind set on a cruise; a real cruise on a real boat with a real skipper going to foreign places. I didn’t want to be abrupt or rude so I had to think quickly. I had no problem trying to take the easy way out so I said, “I think it would be best for me to talk directly to the boy’s mother. When she gets all the information, she’ll be able to help you decide if this is the right program for the young man.” She didn’t let me off the hook that easily.
“Oh no, this is a surprise! And when he hears he’s going on a cruise, he’s going to be about as excited as a tick on a skinny dog.”
I was not about to ask what a dog’s weight had to do with a tick’s happiness, but it did give me some insight. “You know. . . This cruise is the best thing since sliced bread and I’m sure your young friend will really enjoy sailing with us. We set sail on June 7th and we come back to port each afternoon. That way the children will be able to sleep in their own beds and have the best of both worlds.”
“Well, goodness gracious sakes alive. . . You can’t get to India and back in one day!”
“Of course we can. . . We’ll be using our imaginations and when you imagine, everything is possible.”
That was the end of our conversation. She said a sweet good-bye and I haven’t heard from her since. I’m sure her neighbor had a wonderful summer adventure.
I can't help but wonder. . . . What did she think about the signs we put up this year? They said, "GALAXY QUEST: Explore the far reaches of Outer Space!"