Mrs. Fitz's Story Emporium

I like having hair. I have never known what to do with it. I credit the females in my clan for this. All, each of them, every one, has tresses, I’d say. They have natural waves and sheens and abundance I do not. I admire what I cannot have.

My Mom believed we could do with a little experimentation in the hair department. She put scotch tape on the bangs part and the ends, then cut. For the better part of youth, I resembled a football player. We tried a permanent in 5th grade and I rather enjoyed the crazed lunatic look.

I tried growing my hair long and it was insulted. I tried finger-fluffing my hair and looked like I forgot to wake up. I submitted to a stylist whose solution was what she called “a Pixie” and I called a crew cut.

My hair and I have come to terms. I don’t ask it to grow or flip or extend or curl or pouf. I don’t wish it different or better or other than it is. Other things warrant attention and my hair seems relieved to be left alone.

Other teachers are better than I am at engaging students, leading them to discoveries, and setting them on a success path of a world riveted on achievement that is measured like shoe size.

I am better at seeing what kids DO in the classroom so I’ll mention a few stereotypes observed:

1. The Hero-Spotter. This child’s neck is like a periscope and it cranes up, around and so forth to spot somebody to worship and adore.

2. The Helper-Outer. This child goes totally against the natural instinct of children to mess up and offers to CLEAN up. This child actually DOES clean up.

3. The Me-Me-Me…Me  This child has a nice voice and demeanor but it is nowhere near good enough to be the center of attention; yet is.

4. The Outsourcer. This child abandons self altogether, being involved in a life none of the rest of us can see or hear or participate in.

5. The Boo-Hoo-er.  You know this child. I know this child. Once, most of us once WERE this child.

6. The Cohort. This child is working with another child on something. They are teaching each other something. What that is may be related to class and may not be related to class. Very cool.

Most women, ALL women I know are busy. This is a component of why I cherish them. I just wish we all would stop mentioning it. Being busy, I mean. I did a survey and noted it was mentioned in 90% of my emails this week. What fun if we just told each other what we are doing without the barnacle of busy hanging onto us.

To lead the way, I’ll say I’ve attended meetings, participated in phone conferences, hosted a party, went to several events, spring cleaned a bit later than spring, wrote some, worried about significant and insignificant things, and wondered about issues like the election, aging, education, global unrest, and why technology has made everyone busier.

Ha. I guess being busy prevents you from really saying much of anything that means anything to anyone. I wonder if that is why we cling to it.

Arizona Rep. Gabrielle Giffords (D)officially is Gabrielle Giffords, following her resignation from Congress in January 2012. But during the Democratic Convention this week, I saw her as the stateswoman she is. She was afire onstage where she recited the Pledge of Allegiance. But it was later, in the crowd, she was grace.

Seeing her wasn’t easy because she was almost swallowed by the crowd in the stands around her but cameras panned near her a few times during President Barack Obama’s acceptance speech. Seeing her husband, retired NASA astronaut Mark Kelly, was easier because he is larger, though he stayed in a wing-man position; close enough to help, far enough to let her be.

And she IS. Reports indicate that asking questions remains difficult for her to do as she fights to recover  from a gunshot to her head Jan. 8, 2011 near Tucson, AZ. I can’t fathom how hard that must be for a woman who is curious to the bone.

And yet, standing in a place top-heavy with elected politicians,  applauding and smiling and applauding again, She IS leadership and she IS America.

Our 1950’s ranch house in Elmhurst, Il was suited to recycling but Mom, Dad, two brothers and I weren’t familiar with the term. We were familiar with leftovers.

Our attic ran the length of the house, which meant nothing ever need be tossed. We sent old stuff  up there to live. Once, Dad tried to sneak out a toy gas station and a toy log-cabin.  His sons were of an age to cruise in cars looking cool in case girls saw them. Dad did not get away with it.

We had a basement that ran the length of the house, which meant we had a place for dead appliances, books we hadn’t read but should read, and quirky stuff people bought in the 1960s that they liked but dare not display, like troll dolls, tiny tiki gods and hula skirts that we wore, but shouldn’t have.

Mom smoothed wrinkles out of used aluminum foil. She smoothed wrinkles out of used wrapping paper. What she couldn’t smooth she collected. We had a rope of safety pins that might traverse the nation. We had buttons enough to close the worldwide achievement gap.

Our meals elevated left-over-ing to an art form. Bologna isn’t that great in its quasi-natural form; however, fried and placed like foie gras upon toast, well then.  Pot roast has every right to assume its lifespan ends when served with carrots; however when it remarries some onion and bacon, it is reborn. Its name is “hash.” Well then.