. . . on a tripod, yet. . . .Beat That, Barbie!
Mamacita says: At Christmas, or for birthdays (the only times kids got new toys!) other little kids wanted Barbie dolls, sleds, electronics, fake makeup, shoes, sports equipment, and other “typical” kid-desired stuff. I wanted a telescope.
That’s really all I wanted. A telescope, a real, not-a-toy telescope. I’ve never like Barbie; I still don’t. I rejoiced when my daughter wasn’t a Barbie person, either. I didn’t want any kind of doll; I just wanted a telescope.
That year, after Mom and Dad came near to pleadin’ with me to name something they could understand and easily purchase, they said they’d try. I mean, that Santa would try. (Kids who know what side their bread’s buttered on believe in Santa more and far longer than cynical little kids who are too big for their britches and don’t have the negotiation skills smart little kids have). I crossed my fingers AND my toes and hoped.
Hope really is the thing with feathers. . . . My hope made my dream of Christmas morning, with me running in with my brother and sisters and seeing a telescope, a real telescope, not a toy, a telescope on a tripod, with my name on it, seem possible. And yet, I knew they didn’t really understand, and that a purchase like this would be difficult for them. I didn’t want what the other kids wanted, and no substitution would do. A substitution would devastate me, even while I was prepared for something else and a lecture about my own good.
I was obsessed with the night sky. I used to go outside at night, where the car was sitting on the carport driveway, lie on top of it, and search the night sky with a pair of pink plastic binoculars, dreaming of how much more I’d be able to see on Christmas night with my new, genuine, not-a-toy telescope on a tripod. Like astronomers had. I wonder now what the neighbors must have thought at the sight of a little girl lying on top of an old 1959 Chevrolet (the year the fins were huge) as still as a stone for hours.
You don’t need a powerful telescope to see some awesome sights in the night sky, but with a telescope, a real telescope, it was going to be so much. . . oh, I didn’t even really KNOW. . . something. MORE something. IF I got the telescope. IF Santa understood. Santa was more than a bit provincial at our house. Santa understand Barbies, but I had my doubts about a telescope.
A few days before Christmas, a wrapped package appeared under our tree. A wrapped package shaped exactly like a small telescope: a small, hand-held telescope. Toy size. I refused to so much as touch it, although my dad kept urging me to pick it up and try to guess what it might be. I didn’t want it to be the telescope. I didn’t want a toy telescope. I wanted a real telescope. On a tripod. And I was afraid now of Christmas morning.
On Christmas morning, I was afraid to run into the room. Dad filmed every Christmas morning with his 8mm camera, and I didn’t want to be preserved forever with a look of devastation on my face as I realized that Santa’s idea of a telescope was a toy purchased at Woolworth’s. I wanted no memories of a Christmas morning that didn’t have a real telescope-on-a-tripod waiting for me.
On Christmas morning, when Dad said “Go!” I walked into the living room very slowly, behind the other kids. I was scared bordering on frantic sticking a toe into the territory of terrified at what I would find.
What I found was a telescope. A real telescope, on a tripod, and it was for me. Mine. I probably got some other gifts as well, but I have no recollection of them. All I’d really wanted was the telescope and I got it.
As a matter of fact, I still have it. It’s still awesome. It was one of the first things I packed when I got married and moved away from my parents’ house, and it resides in a corner of the living room, behind the TV as I type.
Sometimes, parents who honestly don’t have a clue how to indulge a little girl’s wishes because the little girl is a genetic sport and isn’t like any of the other kids, get it right. As for the fake telescope under the tree, put there to worry and fool me, I still think that was one of the dirtiest tricks anyone ever played on me, and I refused to even touch it. Dad opened it to reveal a wrapping paper tube, and nobody understood my disdain for the whole laughing childish lot of them. 🙂
I didn’t have to lie on top of the car any more. Now I could sit on the front steps, comfortable until the cold stone came through my pants, and look at the night sky and all its glory the way kids in books saw it. I always identified and warmed to kids in books far more than kids in real life. Kids in real life played with Barbies. Kids in real life got laughed at in school for drawing picture after picture of planets, stars, comets, asteroids, Lightning Lad, Saturn Girl, Cosmic Boy (before the Legion was rendered forever uncool by new artists and bad writers). . . . Kids in books not only looked through telescopes; sometimes, kids in books got in space ships and WENT UP THERE.
Which is a possibility I still haven’t ruled out.
Blogging: My First Love is Also My Current Love
Mamacita says: Facebook, Twitter, and PInterest are taking up much of my former blogging time, but you know something. . . . popular and fun and useful as other aspects of social media might be, my first love is also my current love: blogging.
I am one of the old-school bloggers. My archives go back to April 2004, and by blogging/social media standards, that’s practically ancient.
I go to conferences mainly to meet up with other old-school bloggers. Oh, I love meeting the newbies, too – we all begin everything as 
newbies – but my heart beats with love at the very thought of the other old-timers, the bloggers I’ve known and followed for years. I’d list them here but they know who they are. I only hope they know how precious they are to me.
Whether I’m speaking or just attending, blogging conferences are necessary for my soul.
My clients are precious, also. I give them my full attention, and I hope I give them exactly what they need and want. I also hope they let me know pronto if I don’t.
This blog is not a client blog, although several clients have “discovered” me here. This blog is where I talk about my own “stuff,” and if that is of interest to others, more the better. (SQUEEEEEEE….)
Blogging saved my soul alive, but that is probably another story. Someday, perhaps I will have the courage to tell it. Some of you already know it, and your support has meant the world to me.
Those of you who have encouraged me along the way will be precious until the day I die. Possibly even after that.
Blogging has enhanced my life. It has enhanced my teaching. It has enhanced my social media work. It has enhanced me.
I think it would do the same for you. Give it a chance.
Blogging is far more than keeping a diary of what you had for dinner. That might have worked for Samuel Pepys, but these days people save that stuff for Twitter. 🙂
We had chicken/cheese enchiladas for dinner tonight. Interested? I thought not.
Blogging gives us a look into other people’s lives, and allows us to become acquainted, really acquainted. Blogging lets us share, and help, and like each other and, sometimes, even love each other, and I don’t necessarily mean the romantic or creepy kind. Blogging is the village that everyone needs.
I met some of my best and dearest friends via blogging. So can you.
What are you waiting for?
You Are More Important Than A Piece of Paper
My students tend to get stressed when it’s quiz or test time.
I want to tell them not to worry so much, so I think I will do just that:
Dear students:
It’s just a piece of paper. No piece of paper will ever be as important as YOU are. Relax. Breathe deeply. Stand up and stretch when you feel the need. Go get a coke out of the machine, and maybe a Snickers bar, too. Chocolate won’t hurt your test; I’ll be grading it myself and unless it’s so soiled I can’t read it, who cares?
Sometimes a little sugar might be just the energy boost you need. Get up and walk around the parking lot for a few minutes; clear your head. Look at the trees behind the college. Watch the squirrels. When you come back inside, take a few deep breaths, pick up your pencil and begin again.
Read carefully; you KNOW these things. I know you do. I’ve heard you talk about these topics for a month now and you KNOW them. Don’t let your fear of the test itself overcome the knowledge in your head. Don’t let a piece of paper take you down. USE the piece of paper to prove your knowledge of these things. Let the piece of paper encourage you to express what you know. You are the boss of this piece of paper. This piece of paper cannot defeat you. This piece of paper WANTS you to master it. You can.
Inside your head, where dwells your actual self, is a universe of wonder. You’ve got what it takes to succeed in life. You can do it. The piece of paper is just you showing me that you understand little increments of cool stuff, one sheet at a time.
Is this registering with you, students? Don’t let the dread of a quiz or test get between you and that piece of paper. And remember this, because it’s very important: a test itself is never as awful as the dread of it beforehand.
I’ve heard many of you saying this already: “That quiz wasn’t hard at all!” Well, guess what: it was supposed to be hard. The reason why you didn’t think so is that you KNOW THIS STUFF.
Yes, you do. Shut up.
