Uncategorized

MK Clancey

The Song That Doesn’t End…

Reflections on being married to a Deadhead….

Ever hear of Shari Lewis and her sidekick, a sock puppet named Lambchop? Shari and Lambchop had a television show back in the 60s that must have been rerun in the 90s as I remember watching it with my then-young sons. At the end of each show, she and Lambchop would sing a song as annoying as the title suggests, The Song That Doesn’t End – “ It is the song that doesn’t end, it just goes on and on my friend…” 

Fast forward and fast backward, I’ve been listening to another version of this song since 1977, courtesy of The Grateful Dead.  You see, my husband is what is referred to as a Deadhead.  Believe it or not, Deadhead is in the Oxford Dictionary and is defined as: a fan and follower of the rock group The Grateful Dead.  It is also defined as the verb deadheading: to remove dead flowers from a plant to encourage further blooming.  As a gardener, I do a lot of deadheading, while the Deadhead on the porch listens to The Song That Doesn’t End. 

Let’s get a little history on this sad story. I was never a Deadhead. My musical taste was more along the lines of The Eagles, Moody Blues, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, and Chicago.  Please keep your opinions to yourself.  Meeting my husband Tom, I began to see this carefree and dedicated (no pun intended) group of followers who tried then and continue to try now, to see the band, or what remains of it, and anyone remotely affiliated with the band, as many times as possible.  In addition, any free time between shows is spent listening to other shows, which are all “the best show” or “the best version” ever! As a parent, he is a kind and dedicated (again, no pun) father.  However, as one can imagine, growing up with this music constantly being played has undoubtedly influenced my three sons.  Not in a bad way, most Deadheads are kind, patient, and respectful people, even if they did, or do, smoke a lot of pot and have what I consider to be a need for a fashion makeover.  (When you hit 60 and have the body of a 60-year-old, a very bright tie-dye T-shirt is not the best choice of tops.) My youngest son, with the wisdom of a child, once referred to the continuous Dead music as “The Soundtrack of our Lives.” Yikes! 

My eldest son, who probably attended more shows than the other two boys since his Dad was younger and more able to go just about anywhere to see a show, has a deep appreciation and understanding of the music.  You see, he is a musician. Initially drawn to jazz music and jazz guitarists such as Wes Montgomery and John Scofield, whom he still listens to and greatly admires, he, like many musicians, branched out and experimented with other musical genres.  His dad often suggested forming a Dead cover band, secretly hoping to have one playing in the backyard at all times, and his second reason was the large following he saw for the music.  Son 1 finally steps up to the plate and gets this band going.  Organizing four other exceptionally talented young men, they form Deadmeat. If you have never heard of them, check them out. Their harmonies, voices, and exceptional music make even a non-deadhead like me enjoy their playin’, playin’ in the band.

Son 1’s Dead band plays in multiple states and various venues. As an observer, I take in all of those who come to enjoy and listen to the music.  There are the serious ones, the ones who are now old and have many stories to share of their travels to shows and escapades during those journeys.  At a show in Nyack, New York, my husband pointed out a friend of ours from college who was in attendance, and when I asked him where he was, he said, “The older guy over there with a white beard and a tie-dye shirt.” Really? That was basically everyone standing within the first ten rows. This makes me wonder if the Grateful Dead franchise ever considered going into the 55-and-older market.  Jimmy Buffett did it with the Margaritaville Communities, so why not The Dead?  They might call it Franklin’s Towers and offer classes such as spinning (not on a bike, the real thing), Tie-Dying, Hula Hooping, and Hackeysack for those who can still do it.  Casual dining might be served at Bertha’s, and an upscale diner experience is available at Ripple.  Mmmm…. Worth a thought?

Son 2 is an easy-going guy and a very creative thinker. His choice in music is unique.  While going through his grandparents’ old albums, where others select Sinatra and Crosby, he chooses The First Family, a 1962 comedy album about the Kennedy Family, and The Long Island Banjo Band.   This son reintroduces us all to amazing songs from the past that our parents loved, like Louis Prima’s Banana Split for My Baby, and songs from our youth that seemed goofy at the time, yet we all loved them, They’re Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa! by Napoleon XIV ‧ 1966. (Go ahead, sing it, you know you know it.)  On holidays when he and his brothers cook all day long, his music choices keep us laughing to lyrics, bopping to bossa nova and samba beats, and confusingly asking him, “What is this song?”.  I love when this son comes over, as we get to take a brief hiatus from The Song That Doesn’t End and listen to something old, new, and just plain fun. It is only a matter of time before we sit down to eat, talk, and laugh, and the familiar soundtrack of our lives begins playing again, with the Greatest Show of All Time that my husband always remembers being at. When I hear the year of this show and remind him that that although he seemed to have had a lot of freedom as a child with regards to taking the Long Island Railroad to Madison Square Garden and hanging out drinking beers on a so-called “Log”, he was only ten that year and I do not think he was there. 

Son 3 has his own taste in music.  When driving in the car and he asks to put on his music selections thinking that he might introduce his parents to a new band, singer or sound, I see my husband sort of grimace, and say “Sure”, secretly hoping the bluetooth in the car will not work and we can return to Sirius Radio Channel 23, where you can “hear music spanning the band’s career with unreleased concert recordings, original shows hosted by band members, and even rare archival interviews with Jerry Garcia…” 

Give me strength…. 

Although they are all different types of music fans, they do share a common place in their musical hearts for The Dead.  Growing up with The Dead, they watched their father’s music be played on albums, cassettes, CDs, and Sirius radio.  The albums lie somewhere in our basement, but the cassettes, ahh… the cassettes.  I venture to say that there are over 1000 cassettes of shows.  They are stored in cabinets purchased explicitly for this storage. They are organized by date and show, and are rarely used now.  Back in the day, when the shows were being taped religiously, we would have to stay in on Saturday nights so the taping could be completed.  Eventually, we found an excellent babysitter who not only would keep a watchful eye over our sons, but would get paid an extra twenty dollars if she could do “the flip” of the cassette at precisely the right time so as not to miss a note of the “Greatest Show of All Time!”  And don’t get me started on Dick’s Picks.  I do not even know who Dick is or was, but he had a lot of Picks, and we had to purchase them all, and I’ve all the CDs to prove it! 

Need some space?  Space has been explained to me as the time when, if you are at a show, you go to the bathroom.  From what I gather, it is a time between sets when experimental music and sounds are played.  To me, it sounds like the music to a nightmare, if nightmares had a soundtrack. And, it goes on for a long time with the hopes that soon a familiar tune will start to be heard, and then everyone begins the guessing game of what that tune might be.  The band is tricky though, and what might sound like a song you recognize could easily be switched to one you never saw coming.  But no fears, as it will be the best version ever! 

Then there was the year that Jerry Garcia died. We had rented a rustic house on Fire Island for a month when the news arrived.  My husband climbed the stairs to the crow’s nest on top of the house and stayed there for a good two weeks, grieving Jerry’s death. He was in a perfect location to watch sunsets, hang his tie-dye shirt on a flag pole, and play the music, which he did, loud. He must have really admired the man, as I can not think of any musician whom I would have done this for.  We have multiple pictures of Jerry Garcia around my house: photographs, pencil sketches, and concert posters from various stages of his career.  My father, who always seemed to know how to get under someone’s skin, would go up to a sketch hanging in our family room, look at it oddly and ask Tom, “So whose this Spanish woman that you like so much?” all the while knowing exactly who it was.  Tom would laugh, and Dad would too.  Jerry would probably laugh as well if he were there. 

I guess my takeaway from it all is that it doesn’t matter what your song is, as long as it brings you joy. We may all be going to hell in a bucket, but at least the Deadheads are enjoying the ride. 

MK Clancey

Day 3: The Beginning of the End? The End of the Beginning? The Beginning of the Beginning? The End of the End?

Where am I at? Sitting at my desk on a comfortable and mood-appropriate rainy Sunday morning, I ask myself this question.  Thunderstorms rumble in the distance, creating a sound that almost seems like voices having this conversation with me.  For it is Day 3.  The first day that I have written. What is day 3?  It is the so-called question above: Is it the beginning of the end, the end of the beginning, the beginning of the beginning, or the end of the end?  Day 3 is my third day of what has been a wonderfully and thoughtfully overly celebrated so-called retirement. I call it so-called, as it is just that, it is what we call it – retirement.  According to the Oxford Dictionary, retirement means:  The leaving of one’s job and ceasing to work. To me, that sounds more like the definition of death, not retirement.  Does the leaving of one’s job have to go hand in hand with the ceasing to work?  I’ll go along with the leaving of one’s job part, but it should further be added, after a long career of routines including waking early, commuting to and fro the place of business, paperwork and projects outside of working hours, dreaded Monday mornings, childcare arrangements, family vacations at the most expensive times of the year, emails that just keep coming, text messages related to work, meetings, new computer programs, data, deadlines, and the never ending sleepless nights of hoping that you make enough money to pay your current bills as well as building that nest egg for retirement.  The second part of the definition, ceasing to work, causes me both humor and fear. I chuckle as I consider how one ever ceases to work. I return to the dictionary to see how work is defined.  It states, work:  an activity involving mental or physical effort done in order to achieve a purpose or result.   If that’s the case, I’ve been employed since I was born!  Think of the mental and physical effort of a newborn, toddler, and child, figuring out who and what is in this new world around them. They must learn to sleep, eat, crawl, potty train, walk, talk, read, write, work with numbers, communicate their needs, and socialize with others. These are probably the most important mental and physical efforts done in order to achieve a purpose or result – yeah, survival.  It frightens me that retirement is defined as a ceasing of work, for I define it more as a revision of the type of work one does.  The connection between childhood and this “ripe old age of 65” (bullshit), is what that thunder outside my window is softly trying to tell me.  “Remember before you had to work to get a paycheck, remember when you were a kid and you loved to paint, loved to ride your bike, loved to work in the garden, loved to cook and bake, loved to sit and watch the ocean,  loved to play?” it asks.  Taking the paycheck aspect out of it, it is all still work – an activity involving mental or physical effort done in order to achieve a purpose or result. 

Back to my original question:

The beginning of the end: A true oxymoron. Perhaps in a book, or in this essay, I am writing the beginning of the end, but this leads me to think what is truly an end. Is there ever an end or only beginnings?  Let’s take this further, if I end my career by walking out the door, isn’t the sheer act of walking out that door a beginning? The end is rather just a part in the middle, if one so chooses to have that mindset to never consider it the end. The end of the beginning, I buy into this one.  There is an end to a beginning, for example, the end to a beginning of a vacation, a season, a school year, or a job.  The beginning of the beginning: Ah, the bright and sunny one! This is the one, as we get older, we must force ourselves to see.  For example, when I started college at what I thought was a very mature age of seventeen, this time in my life was definitely viewed, no additional thought necessary, as the beginning of the beginning. It was the beginning of a whole new chapter, with new characters, new settings, and new learning.  At my current, what I think is a very mature age of sixty-five, I need to put additional effort into this philosophy and make it part of a daily affirmation: “This is the beginning of the beginning, the beginning of the beginning, the beginning of the beginning, … ”

Then we come to the end of the end.  When I walked out those doors on the last day of work, it was the end of the end, or rather the end of the ending. And when something ends, doesn’t something else begin? It has to, for there is no true ending; there are only beginnings. To quote the metaphor, when a door closes, a window opens, I find it both optimistic and coincidental that I sit looking out an open window. Although there are thunderstorms brewing outside, they are gentle, and remind me that they will end and a new sky will begin.

MK Clancey

“ I think it’s something that literature does, that writing does, that speaking about things does. It keeps our hearts from breaking.”

The words in the title above are not my words. They are the words of author Lois Lowry taken from an interview in the New Yorker Magazine. I took them down as they ring so true to me. There are times that I need to write. Writing provides a means of letting out feelings and thoughts that I feel like if I don’t get down on paper will just bust right through me. That is what I am doing here. I’m mending my heart.

This past Christmas 2021, was my worst Christmas yet, a close runner up to 1985 when my newborn son spent his first Christmas in the hospital. The difference was this one was spent mostly alone.  The Christmases of excess food, Mom and Dad, sisters and brothers, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren just a memory. You see, Covid –  the Grinch of this Christmas, and I hate to even make Covid seem like some funny holiday character for it is not, made its way into our home after 18 months of keeping it out. First infecting my husband, then my youngest son, then the oldest, and then me. I cried when I heard the word: positive. Funny how this word normally connected with good thoughts, good news, was now the word you didn’t want to hear. It’s quite scary, but Covid appears  like a character from a fairy tale, it dresses up like someone kind and close to you and joins in at family parties and gatherings and then it slips you the poison apple. That’s how it got us. My family met for a holiday show where my musician son was performing at a restaurant and one of my other sons returning from college. With a backdrop of Christmas in the air, we kissed and hugged and ate together. Then a day later, as we were about to gather for my middle son’s birthday, it started. Guess it starts different for different people, but we had the tomahawk straight through your scull headache with accompanying dizziness,  followed by a sore throat and/or cough and fever. Some poison apple. I was so afraid when I heard the news, like someone hearing that the enemy was out there and thinking you were safe until they are at your door and in your house! Oh I could go on, as my mind races back to my reading of Gone With the Wind and strong willed Scarlet thinking that would never happen to her, Oh Fiddle-de-de indeed! We moved the positive patients upstairs to isolation, and me playing the role of of Scarlet in this one, rolled up my sleeves and did the work needed to be done. The Christmas Tree stayed lit, the presents stayed wrapped, and I cried as I watched It’s a Wonderful Life all alone on Christmas Eve. With a good bottle of red wine as my only  companion I spoke to the pictures of family on the book shelf sort of wishing that I would have my own A Christmas Carol sleep that night. My one son, the musician who had been exposed to the positive family member put himself in his own isolation and spent Christmas Eve and Christmas night at a crappy motor inn, more reasons for me to cry. Always looking for a good song to write, I suggested that one to him, Christmas at a Crappy Hotel, you never know? It just broke my heart as I could only remember Christmas Eves and Christmas nights filled with people, food, love and fun. Now all of us by ourselves, some sick and some watching as the Covid tide moved in.

I slept on the couch with the tree lit and woke on a dreary Christmas Day. A day usually filled with excitement and a too-much-to-be-done agenda took on an entirely new shape.  I poured some coffee and spent a long time staring out the window and I wrote so my heart wouldn’t break. On Christmas my sons came over and we lit a fire in the yard, keeping a distance from each other as we exchanged Merry Christmases and next year will be better. Note – That is what we said to each other last year! We were like a scene from a depression era movie, Christmas by the Fire Pit – no gifts, no tree, just some beer and hope –  hope that next year would indeed be better. I packed them up with some food to take back to the crappy motor inn and the other to his room at his house, (where his roommates also had covid) and with one more I love You, went our ways. I cried again.

The holiday moved on and it was soon after that I too became ill with the tomahawk headache, the sore troat and fever and the realization that you can’t stop the tide. From the start of  December to the beginning of this new year mostly everyone I know, who like me had fought that battle of keeping the enemy at bay, eventually heard the negative outcome of positive. My heart heals as I write this and my family and I tentatively look forward to a Martin Luther King Jr. Christmas this year and a new appreciation of gathering as a family.  

Here is what I wrote that Christmas morning:

As I look out my window

on trees with no leaves

and a damp cold morning out there,

There are no presents under the tree

No Christmas lights on

Yet I feel it – 

Christmas is inside of me.

My mother and father

the tree that kept falling down,

my brother and sisters

all with our pajamas on.

The excitement of my children

as they open up gifts

that Christmas morning feeling

it’s inside of me.

This Christmas is different

no family or friends

we wait for a healing

a means to the end.

I am all alone

my children are too

but maybe it not just that,

but’s what inside of you.

The true meaning of Christmas

the reason is found

for Christ has been born

love and hope abound.  

MK Clancey

Sure, it’s fine to go in the water.

Last Saturday I watched the ultimate summer scare movie – Jaws. Released in the summer of 1975, anyone who has watched this movie knows how it changed your opinion of taking a casual swim on a hot summer day. Pitted against each other are the snappy Mayor Larry Vaughn, the diligent and afraid-of-water Sheriff Broday, Oceanographer and Shark Expert Hooper, and the old fisherman and curmudgeon Quint.  It is one of those movies that no matter how many times you have seen it, you get stuck in the wait-5-more-minutes scenario, until eventually the credits start running and you realize that you have actually watched the entire movie (for the 20th time).

One particular scene really hit a note with me during this viewing. It is the 4th of July scene when, against the recommendations of the Shark Expert Hooper and Sheriff Brody, the mayor refuses to shut the beaches. The scene builds as volunteer boaters agree to watch the waters for any sign of the killer shark, while Sheriff Brody keeps an eye on the shore, and the mayor wanders the beach wondering why no one is swimming. As Mayor Vaughn walks amongst those sitting on beach blankets and chairs, he comes across what appears to be a family friend. Tapping him on the shoulder, the friend, a fair-skinned  middle-aged man turns and calls to him, “Why hi, Larry.” Offereing no return greeting, the mayor simply wants to know, “Why aren’t you in the water?” After explaining why they are not swimming, due to a recent application of suntan lotion, the mayor bluntly states, “Nobody is going in – please – get in the water.”  The man, whose name we do not know, glances at his wife with a sort of what can we do type of look, and they both then turn to look at the water.  The viewer is then left to decide what thoughts are going through their minds. At that point, my thoughts are something like this, oh s….., I really don’t want to do this! I’m not sure who Mayor Larry is to this family, but they must owe him a tremendous debt, for they then rise from their sand chairs, take their three children by the hands, and walk into the water. Others follow and soon the water is filled with swimmers, those on floats and others simply cooling off. For those of us who know the movie, you know what happens. For those three of you who have not seen it, I won’t give it away. But, as we soon learn, they should have stayed out of the water.

This summer is an odd one. With the Covid virus still lurking in our lives, summer vacation plans have been canceled, pool clubs closed, and camps not running. Like the great white shark in Jaws, it hides beneath the surface and us, the beach dwellers, are  unsure of when or where it will strike. Unlike other viruses that fall off in the hot weather, this virus, like the shark in Jaws, does not follow normal patterns. While most sharks hunt in the ocean, this shark goes off into the bay. It is our great white: a silent, fast moving, unpredictable, and deadly virus. So, as Mayor Larry asks, “Why aren’t you in the water?”

As a elementary teacher this metaphore transfers so easily to the current situation of returning to schools this fall. “Don’t worry, the water is fine,” is the voice of many.  Unfortunately, I play the role of the unnamed man on the beach who takes the hands of his children and guides them into the murky waters. Not really the role I would like to be playing, as everyone who is watching this scene is yelling out to them. “ARE YOU CRAZY?  DON’T GO IN! THE HELL WITH MAYOR LARRY.” Yet they do, knowing they shouldn’t, and what’s even worse, they take their children with them.

Children are born into this world with the gift of trust. As an adult, trust is something you earn over time by demonstrating that when you say something you mean it, you stand by your word, responsibilities, and commitments. Oddly enough, though, a child is born into this world already having trust. They look at their parents and family with eagerness to learn and with the belief in their eyes that you will take care of them. That is why it is so sad when we hear stories of abuse or neglect, because we know at some point that child trusted those people. It is the innocence of this trust that marvels me. Without even knowing me, those students new to my class in September trust that I will take care of them, and like all the teachers I know, we will. This is especially emphasized as we now practice lockdown and active shooter drills. Now a new threat emerges, Jaws in the classroom, aka, Covid. Decisions for children are not made by children but by adults with varied interests and points of view. I doubt anyone who is making decisions on the reopening of schools has solicited the opinion of a 5 to 8 year old as part of their research. It is these young human beings who will come to me in September asking, are we safe? 

At the ending of Jaws, the old fisherman, Quint, who believes in none of this fancy fishing equipment to catch the shark, does in fact fall victim to that very thing he feared the most and the least. His damn it –  just do it attitude serves him little as he slides into the mouth of the beast, letting out that scream he referred to as he told the story of being a part of the USS Indianapolis. Brody, the original don’t-go-into-the-water crusader, is left alone to battle the great white. With a single act of I have nothing else to lose, he says that great, “smile you son of a bitch” line and blows the beast to bits becoming a feast for the birds.  If only we too could look this beast in the eyes and blow it to bits, moving it out of our homes, schools, businesses, and lives. Sending it to smithereens – even if for a short time – for as you may or may not know, there were three sequals to Jaws, none as good as the first, but the beast does return.

duunnn,  duuunnnn, duuunnnn………

MK Clancey

Let the people at the dictionary know!

New words get into the dictionary every year.  If a word is used by many people in conversation and writing the word spreads.  Based on my recent new way of teaching, where I spend numerous hours doing something that a few months ago I had never even heard of,  Zooming, I have created a whole new use for this word rather than the basic to zoom.  If you don’t know what zooming is, well as I said, a few months ago either did I, so don’t feel bad.  Zooming is a virtual way of conducting a meeting, or in my case a classroom.  I set up the meeting on a computer, send invites, and we all join the meeting at the arranged time.  Once on, you and all attendees appear to be in little boxes on the screen, similar to what those of my generation refer to as being like, The Brady Bunch intro.

So to the editors at the Mirriam-Webster Dictionary,  I propose the following new words:

A zoomtail (a cocktail one has at a zoom)
zaammed (the past tense of zoom)
Zoomscare (when you see yourself on a zoom and are frightened by the face you see)
zoomavoidance (a syndrome one develops as pressure to zoom more and more occurs)
zoomologist (someone who has a Doctorate in zoom)
zoombutt (a noun to describe the butt one develops sitting on zoom all day)
zoomification (the noun that describes the act of zooming)
zoomful (adjective to describe someone who is full of zoom)
zoomable (adjective to describe someone or something that can be zoomed)
zoomless (when you have no more zooms to go to 🙂
zoomphobia (fear of zooming)
Zoomocd (when you become fixated on the number of attendees at your zoom and keep counting them)
Zoomtist (a zoomer who is an artist at virtual backgrounds)
Zoomer ( a hipster who zooms)
zoomerector (the person in the background who sets the zoom up for you and is there in case any glitches occur)
zoomtorsoist (a person who can’t seem to get their face on the zoom and you are always looking at their torso instead)
seniorzoomer (someone over the age of 65 who zooms)
goldenzoomer (someone over the age of 85 who zooms)
Antizoomer (someone who is totally against the act of zooming)
zoombie (someone who has become zombie like after sitting on zooms all week)
zoomtender (the person who is mixing your zoomtails while you are zooming)
In closing, this teacher is done zooming and is going to have my zoomtender make me a zoomtail.

 

MK Clancey

I have learned…..

“That’s a nice idea Laurie’, I said to my friend as she suggested the idea we look at the good that might come from this.

Later, in reconsidering her idea, she had said, “find some good.”

So, I sit here now thinking of all the “good” that can come from this pandemic and in my thinking, I can actually think of a few new and/or good things that I have learned (or relearned).

First,

I have learned that even Amazon can let you down.

I have learned that I can survive without a pedicure.

I have learned that my youngest son can paint really well with watercolors!

I have learned that my eldest son is an amazing vegetarian cook and he has a blog on it!

I have learned that my middle son, is the hardiest person I know, and when others are down, he works extra hard to make his laugh just a little bit louder and a little bit stronger to cheer you up.

I have learned that all those days that I was busy rushing around, that nature never stops, plants grew, birds sing, and although at times I felt I was in one place, nature never was.

I have learned how to get an old bicycle pump from my garage and fill up my bike tires (I haven’t done that since I was a kid).

I have learned the true color of my hair.

I have learned how to reduce, reuse, and recycle many of the items that I wastefully use every day.

I have learned my neighbors’ names.

I have learned to watch church on TV and what channel it is on.

I have learned to appreciate all the times I thought my parents were being ridiculous saving items that they said just might come in handy someday.

I have learned how to reread my old writing journals and laugh and cry and revisit times in my life.

I have learned how to spend time everyday writing, and walking, and being mindful of the world around me.

I have learned how much I love and need my husband and that he is a pretty good friend and companion.

I have learned how hard it is to teach if you are not there to demonstrate it.

I have learned how much stuff I have accumulated in my house and how much stuff needs to be tossed.

I have learned that the only thing I really want for Mother’s Day, and Christmas, and my birthday is to hug my children and family.

I have learned – that nothing else really matters.

MK Clancey

These Crazy Virtual Days

Dear Friends,



I’ve been watching some of the late-night stars do their monologue via computer while in this recent quarantine.  That made me think about how it might be fun to share a few of our ideas, and reflections via email.  




In my first days of the 15-day plan I’ve learned quite a bit about myself and others.  Like everyone, day one was very odd. I turned on the computer, checked email, walked around, ate, checked with my principal, and the Jimmy Cliff song, Sitting Here in Limbo kept playing in my head. (Although my husband says the Jerry Garcia version is better).  It was sort of like a snow day, lessons done, waiting for instructions on if we are going to school tomorrow.  On day two I got a little more serious, started reaching out to parents and students personally, learning new programs for communication, but still – in limbo.  Day three I forgot about logging in my attendance, got really serious about emails at 6:30 am, and my daily vocabulary began to change as I started using words like  Social Distancing, Zooming, Screencastifying and doing everything Virtually.  On day four I realized a schedule was needed as memories of me having mono back in high school suddenly were re-opening. You were home for a long time and it was easy to hang out in your PJs and sweat pants and then when you went to put real clothes back on you realized you were 50 pounds heavier.  On day five I was invited to my first zoom virtual happy hour and missed it. My new life became defined by these 3 w’s:  worrying, working, and walking.  




 Let’s talk about walking. I’ve always been a walker, there are a few of us.  We walk all year, by ourselves, and are mindful of the world around us as we do. You see the same people who also walk every day,  some like me just walking and thinking, some on their phones or listening to music, and others talk to themselves, often loudly,  and you think they are a little weird and you should stay away. When you saw or heard these people you would go to the other side of the street.  Now you go to the other side of the street because it is the right thing to do, social distancing. People are also more friendly, everyone says hi, hello, how are you.  And have you noticed all the people out walking? Mothers and fathers, kids and grandparents, husbands and wives, even my husband Tom is walking! Kids are riding bicycles and playing games.  I saw a family playing croquet in their yard today and 2 young girls figuring out how one could ride a bicycle and pull the other one on her skateboard using a rope. These are things I used to do when I was a kid, way back in the 60s.  




Let’s talk about food.  How many of you have dug deeper into your freezer this week than you have ever before?   I found some Dove ice cream bars, leftover appys from the Super Bowl, a chicken pot pie from a supermarket that is now out of business, and way too many half-full bags of different types of french fries and veggies.  In one week, I have learned how to stretch food longer than I ever would have before. My St. Patty Day corn beef, which would have usually been tossed the next day, was reused for sandwiches and made into my first attempt at corned beef hash.   I have had neighbors comment to me that it makes you appreciate parents of my age, those who lived through the great depression. My mom could stretch a piece of meat all week, night one was the meat itself, day two sandwiches, day three a stew, day four was some sort of casserole, and every night it was good, well most of the time.  My parents would reuse their tea bags, straws, plastic cups, dryer sheets, plastic bags, rags, and the disposable generation was something they never understood and called “wasteful.” Everything had a purpose and could be reused again. I used to know that and rediscovered it this week as I limited my paper towel, toilet paper, food, soap, and Lysol wipe usage.  




Family became the most important thing of all.  I spoke with my sisters every day this week. We would usually talk when needed, or once a week for that check-in call, but we spoke every day this week.  Thank Steve Jobs, Google or whoever created cell phones for that tool of being able to reach out and facetime, talk, communicate.




Speaking of face time, please do not do that with me.  Is it facetime or do I really look like that?  


Between my Saturday night virtual happy hour on Zoom and facetime phone calls, added to the reality that I will not be able to get into a hair salon or nail salon for what may be a long time, it is a frightening reality.  Is my hair really that color? Do I have that many wrinkles? Is my face that ugly? Wow, talk about a wake-up call! And the bad news is, the worst is yet to come! My hair appointment, set for next weekend is canceled, my toenails will be 1 foot long before this is over and the cute green nail color that I got for St. Patty’s day will be on the 6-inch end of those toenails.  I might have a beard and mustache, (oh please no) and hopefully, I will be so sick of creative ways to reuse food that I will have lost some weight. When I tried all those ways of losing weight, Weight Watchers, Noom, Atkins, South Beach, wow I never considered just eating as my parents did.  




I’d love to hear your thoughts and ideas.  How’s it going for you? Not having little kids here anymore in my home,  I’d love to hear how that’s going. I heard Jimmy Kimmel say that he made a macaroni necklace with his kids one day and the next day they ate it.  Please share your stories of love, fear, new ideas, appreciation, family, learning, and funny stories, (they are still out there). Be well, my friends.  

	




			
				


	
	

		

			 MK Clancey 		


		
If You Want to Make an Omelet, You Have to Break Some Eggs.
	


	

		
Recently, a dear friend of mine applied for a job as a Chef Cooking Instructor.  After having an interview she was given the opportunity to do a demo lesson.  Her challenge:  teach the class how to make an omelet.


My friend is an amazing cook.  She is one of these people who can somehow make a glass of water taste better.  She has a natural talent for cooking.  Yet teaching someone how to cook rather than just cooking presented her with a whole new set of challenges.  I asked her, what type of teacher will you be?


Would you be the kind of teacher who:


Shows her student an egg and an omelet and then says, “This is what we are making today. Here is what it looks like when we start and here is the finished product.  Ok, off you go.”  I fear that this would result in a few with prior knowledge of omelet preparation knowing how it is done (the enrichment group – just so bright!!) the ones who might cry as they “don’t get it”, and the ones who simply do nothing.


Or she could be the type of teacher who shows and names all the materials, makes sure everyone has them and is sitting quietly at their station. She gives them a list of written directions and sends them off to complete their omelet, reminding  them that the directions are all written out.  Some students get right to the project, crack’n open the eggs, throwing  them on the frying pan and using everything they know about egg making, except the directions.  Others might actually read the directions, step by step and never get to the omelet making. Some might read the directions and complete the steps based on their understanding of what they think the directions are describing.  You would still have the I don’t get it group, some still crying, and those who don’t have their glasses or have difficulty reading,  politely pretending to cook, copying from others, telling egg jokes,  or playing with the eggs.  Eggs are fun to roll around and good for playing catch.


Or she could be the type of teacher who shows each child the steps, one at a time, such as how you crack open an egg.  Then, she runs around and cracks the egg  open for each of her students, assuming that they need her help and assistance with all the steps.  After all, she is the teacher.


Or she could be the type of teacher who lists the steps for all to see and she reads all the steps to the students.  She shows her students the materials and the finished product – but, she never actually makes the omelet herself.  After all, they learned about eggs in the first class they took.  The other chef instructor taught them that.  Oh, but never having made the omelet herself, she doesn’t know that they may have some struggles along the way.  For example, what if you get some egg shell in your egg, what if the heat is too high, what if it falls apart when you flip it?


Or she could be the type of teacher who demonstrates and tells each step. Very slowly, she demonstrates the numerous steps to making the omelet – step by step- ingredient by ingredient- detail by detail.  Alas, when it finally comes time to have her students make their omelets, there is only five minutes left in the class and only four students are still listening, or you think they are listening. The others are playing with the strings on their aprons, tossing their eggs in the air, or gazing out the window.


Or she could be the type of teacher who has a great omelet recipe and she knows they would love it.  Okay, it’s a little tricky and complicated, but it tastes great.  She demonstrates it step by step, has the directions posted, and sends her future chefs off to cook.  Some tell her they don’t like the ingredients she used in her omelet and ask if they might try another way, some only get half way done, some say “they are bad omelet makers,” or “I quit, omelets are stupid anyway.”


I warned her, remember everyone has their own prior experience with omelets, some know a lot about them, some may know the word, others never heard of it and when you say omelet some may think you are saying Um – lets….  Some love eating them, others just hate eggs, and some think that only birds or the Easter Bunny know about eggs.  Some students may have made them at home because their families love to cook and others – may not even have a kitchen. Some students will be quick learners and you will be amazed at how quickly they pick up the skills of whisking the egg or flipping it over.  Others may need a few eggs to practice with.


“At the end of your lesson,” I ask my friend,” what are your expectations for your students?”  Should they have a beautiful omelet? Should they have an I-tried-my-best – omelet?   Will everyone have made an omelet? What about those who don’t?  Regardless of the omelet, what else do you want them to leave your class with?  What will they take away inside of them?  Will it be a sense of I tried my best or I failed?  A feeling of I learned something and I will learn some more and continue to get better at my omelet skills or I know everything there is to know about omelet making – I’m done?  Will they feel like they had fun, are energized, challenged, frustrated, defeated or sad?


“At the end of the lesson,” I ask my friend, “what are your expectations for yourself?”  Will you be angry if everyone doesn’t make a good omelet or will you understand that everyone including yourself did their best?  Will you think about what went well and what didn’t and learn from that reflection?  Will you take the credit if everyone is successful with their omelet or blame the students if it doesn’t quite work as you planned?  Will you quit omelet instruction and stick with grilled cheese sandwiches?  Will you understand that you are on a journey yourself and that there is more on this journey than just the starting point and the finish line?


As a teacher who carefully plans her lessons each week, having this discussion about omelet making and teaching others how it is done reminded me of my teaching.  Regardless if it is omelets or reading, teaching encompasses so many different elements.  As I write my lesson plans I’m thinking about each lesson in terms of teaching how to cook an egg.  Did I model and do it myself?  Have I taken into account my students and their background on the subject?  Do I know where they are at, what they already know or don’t know? Most importantly, are they leaving this lesson with some new learning along their learning journey and can they use this learning somewhere else on the journey and build on it –  and that’s no yolk.

	




			
				


	
	

		

			 MK Clancey 		


		
The Milk Shake Lady
	


	

		
Towards the end of my mother’s life she began to think of death and dying with a new perspective, not with fear and dread, but more of inevitability, a last chapter, paragraph, line in her story.  She would say things like, “God has forgotten me… this is not living… when will it be my time.” I too talked of it differently, comforting her, saying things like, “He hasn’t Mom…. Your time will come….I know it is hard…. Hang in there.”   Sitting in that small studio apartment, with a few furniture pieces from the past, her Christmas cactus, and photos of family…. we were waiting.  Waiting for something we knew was not far away, death, on its way, like a package to be delivered.  Ding dong….


As I take another scoop of the yogurt parfait my mother would always eat, I am reminded of how she could never finish hers and would wrap it up, ever so carefully, like plastic wrap something never to be wasted.  She would cradle it gently in her lap bring it back to her refrigerator where she would keep it with all the other halves eaten meals and snacks. Once in the frig they would begin their own life cycle there. Stage 1: sit in foil or plastic wrap for a few days.  Stage 2: be looked at once again, possibly labeled and then moved into the freezer.  Stage 3:  freezer opened, reorganized and placed back in to collect ice.  Stage 4:  my sisters or I would eventually throw them out – never eaten.  It was like saving all of these foods were hope – hope they would someday be thawed, eaten and enjoyed.  But – their chance of ever being eaten ended once they were wrapped and placed in the frig, stage 1.


Eventually Mom’s diet became a liquid one – Milkshakes, Ensure, ice tea and pills.  She loved her chocolate milk shakes and I would try to get her one every day. I tried different types for a while, from different places, but she liked chocolate the best from a local farm as they would make them not too thick which allowed her to drink them through a straw.


At the farm, you needed to order the milk shakes at a window where ice cream was served.  Often there was no one there so a little bell , like one on a child’s bicycle, was placed there to ring signaling that you required service. Someone, usually a young girl, (although for a brief time there was a very nice young man who I told the story of my mom to and he would always make me a large milkshake and only charge me for a small) would make it for me, “Chocolate please, not too thick,” I would request.


One day I went in for my usual order and rang the bell as no one was in the ice cream window.  A woman about my age, who was working at the counter where you paid, looked over at me and announced very loudly, “Can someone help The Milk Shake Lady?!”  For a moment I stopped breathing, and rewound the tape in my mind.  Did that just happen, I asked myself.  Did she just call ME The Milk Shake Lady?  I had worked in many places like this as a teen and I knew how many of the patrons were given nicknames that only the staff knew,  and now I had one, and it was terrible and worse yet it had been announced to everyone in the farm!  I was known as The Milk Shake Lady!


Now I was not the 95 pounds my mother was at this time, so I’m thinking – they’re thinking – that if this lady would just give up her daily chocolate milkshakes (not too thick) she’d lose 20 pounds!  I suddenly felt the urge to have a t-shirt or a least a button made that said, “These milk shakes are not for me.  They are for my 95 pound mother!”


Well I swallowed what was left of my pride and ordered the chocolate milk shake (not too thick).  I did not chat with the young girl who made it and The Milk Shake Lady left the building, giving a scowl to the woman of my age who had announced my  nickname to all. (I’m still thinking of a name for her – not too flattering.)


I took the milk shake to my mother and told her the story of the milk shake and how they called me The Milk Shake lady and I made her laugh.  She laughed and I laughed and she drank her chocolate milkshake, (not too thick).


Sometimes in life we need to be The Milk Shake Lady. We need to put our pride, and our vanity and our excuses behind us and just keep doing what we know we need to do.  If others think those milk shakes are for me and that’s what keeps me happy – so be it.  But I know they were for a bigger cause, a bigger cause for the smaller things – the small things that make others happy, maybe even make them laugh.  For the milk shakes, The Milk Shake Lady and Mom are all the past.  The package was delivered and The Milk Shake Lady no longer visits the farm.