Where I Go, They Go

Packing for overseas trips has become a bit of a game for me.  I'm determined to someday go overseas and pack only a book bag.  I thought I could pull it off on this trip and I was giving it a valiant effort.  I finally had to succumb, however, and accept the fact that it was just not meant to be.  My suitcase that I'm checking still only weighs 26 pounds.  Pack light or stay home is my motto! (Thank you, Kristen P. for articulating that for me the last time I packed to go overseas.)  I'll have one small suitcase to check, a book bag to carry-on and a small purse - all totaling 48 pounds. I love efficient packing. I think my goal is always to take less and less on each successive trip I take.  Maybe one of these days I'll achieve my own personal gold standard of only carrying on a book bag and checking no luggage.    

This trip is going to be a bit of a departure from my last few trips.  I'm heading out with the Jesus Film Project to a little French island off the coast of Australia called New Caledonia for two weeks and then spending a couple of extra days in New Zealand before I head back home.  There are a whole host of thoughts that have gone into deciding to go on this trip, but I'll unpack those on another day.

You can bet, though, in those 48 pounds of luggage I'm carting around there is most certainly a box of Cheez-Its.  This should not surprise you.

      

Where I go, they go.  They went with me to Kenya and they went with me to Guatemala.  They will now go with me to New Caledonia and New Zealand.  What would I do without you, Cheez-Its?    

Back in the Day When I Learned How to Play the Accordion

Me, back in the day, attempting to learn how to play
the accordion.  It didn't turn out so well. 

Turns out that learning to play the accordion in the fourth grade was a lost cause for me.  It was like trying to pat your head and rub your belly at the same time. I couldn't play the keyboard, press the buttons AND push the billows in and out ALL at the same time.  Besides, the thing weighed about as much as I did so I always felt like I was going to pitch forward, face-first and wind up with accordion keys stuck between my ribs.

But man, Mr. DJ - did he know how to play that accordion.  He played that thing like he was trying to resurrect somebody from the dead.  And I loved it.  I loved watching him play it, doing something he so clearly relished.

Mr. DJ was my fourth grade teacher.  I also happened to have his wife, Mrs. DJ, for third grade.  Their real last name is DesJardins, but we always just called them Mr. and Mrs. DJ.  They were some of my very favorite teachers I ever had in all my years of school, college and grad school included.  It will be 20 years this fall since I first set foot in his classroom.  I remember I pitched a fit when I found out I was slated to have a different teacher for fourth grade.  My older brother had had Mr. DJ for fourth grade also, and I just remember seeing how much fun he had and I wanted to be a part of that.  I have no idea what strings my mom pulled, but she somehow managed to get things switched and I got my wish. (Bless you, Mom.)

Mr. DJ passed away this past Saturday.  And as I've been flipping through old scrapbooks from fourth grade, I can't tell you a single thing I learned from a textbook that year I had him as a teacher. I don't recall any of our grammar lessons and I don't recall any lessons on division or fractions.  I can't recall a single lesson about science or weather or biology.  I couldn't tell you anything about Ohio history.  I can't even remember if we had textbooks.  I have no conscious memory of any of those things.

One of the many postcards I still have from our years
of corresponding back and forth.  We kept it up for over a decade.
And I still have every single one of them.

But I'll never forget Mr. DJ.  Because you don't forget the teacher who instilled in you a deep love of learning.  The teacher who taught you wooden shoe dances and the jitterbug.  The teacher who let you bake all the toaster strudels (and soft pretzels and cookies and biscuits) you wanted. The teacher who lined his classroom walls with license plates from every state because he loved to travel.  The teacher who kept a "booger bell," and rang it anytime a student was caught picking his nose. (I can't believe I forgot that one until somebody mentioned it to me at calling hours!)  The teacher who celebrated everything with a gold "Excellent" stamp on your paper. The teacher who introduced you to molasses syrup. The teacher who loved Route 66.  The teacher who let you make gingerbread houses at Christmas and played Bing Crosby's "Mele Kalikimaka" in the background.  The teacher who played old radio broadcasts of "The Shadow" with a group of students listening enraptured. The teacher who whacked his ruler on his desk if you weren't paying attention when he was talking.  The teacher who introduced you and your brother to the word "flatulence." (I have no idea why, but Mr. DJ liked that word.) The teacher who wore a sombrero and danced around the classroom, playing the accordion, with a string of kids bee-bopping around behind him.  The teacher who taught you how to play the harmonica and thought everything you played sounded just fine.  The teacher who taught you all the bones of the body, thanks to a life-size skeleton named Maud (I didn't recall the name of the skeleton, but my brother brought it to mind).  The teacher who sent you postcards for decades from his many travels, written in his trademark all-caps handwriting.  The teacher who passed out Tootsie rolls to any kid who found whatever city he called out during much-loved "map races" or "dictionary races".  The teacher who took pictures of nearly every piece of artwork his students created.  You don't forget a teacher like that.

I loved having him for a teacher.  I always remember his classroom being so engaging. I don't remember ever being bored.  Mr. DJ was the kind of teacher that made you want to go to school every day.  I couldn't wait to see what he had waiting for us, what project we were going to work on next, what song we would learn next.  There was always something to be doing in his classroom.  We loved him all the more because we didn't realize that what we were doing was called learning.

So, here's to the teachers like Mr. DJ who do more than just teach.  Here's to the teachers who compel a group of young kids to travel and see the world.  Here's to the teachers who keep Wurlitzer jukeboxes in their classrooms and play music while their students are passing the time baking cookies in a tiny toaster oven.  Here's to the teachers who think life lessons are more important than grammar lessons.  Here's to the teachers who celebrate the terrible harmonica players along with the harmonica-playing prodigies.  Here's the teachers who say convention and conformity are over-rated.

Here's to you, Mr. DJ, one of the best teachers I have ever had.  When I stand underneath the arch to the Santa Monica Pier next week, the official end of your much-loved Route 66, I'll think of you.  And I'll be sure to send a postcard.

I Can Feel It Coming

There are just some seasons of life when you realize that if your head weren't attached to your body, you would surely walk off without it.  Seasons when it seems everything is converging at once and you're just hoping to somehow merely survive it with all your limbs intact.

I had a season like that back in grad school.  I was working on my MBA, taking classes at night.  I had two part-time jobs at that point, one for a local eye doctor and the other working for the university in the Student Life office.  My grandfather had recently died and I was just generally feeling swamped by life.  I became acutely aware of how scattered my brain and my life had become when I sat down one day and took stock of my craziness.

I had developed the habit of leaving my apartment/car keys.  In the door.  Overnight.  I would come home, unlock the door and just simply forget to take them back out.  I would wake up the next morning and be ready to head out the door and have no idea where my keys disappeared to.  I knew I was in trouble when this became an established norm and I was no longer surprised at myself for leaving my keys in the door overnight.  I think I came to expect it.  As soon as I couldn't find my keys, I knew right where they would be.  Thankfully I lived in a sleepy little college town, with a perpetually grumpy 90-something-year-old man and a retired professor as my neighbors.  

And then there was the time I was making my grocery list.  I was busy gabbing on the phone at the same time, attempting to multi-task.  When I got off the phone and looked down at my list, I realized I had written "shaving screams," instead of just "shaving cream."

The one that trumped them all, though, was when I was in my office one day at school.  I was packing up for the day, getting ready to leave and I couldn't find my phone.  I am pulling out drawers, rummaging through stacks of paper, looking underneath books.  Can't find it. I check and double-check my purse.  I check my pockets.  I check my coat.  I check the seat cushions.  Still can't find it.  I check the trashcan.  I check the floor.  I check the cabinets.  Zilch.  Where on earth could that thing have gone?

And then it dawns on me.

I.am.on.it, talking to my brother.

Heaven help me.

All of these memories came back to haunt the other day as I began realizing that I am presently following that same pattern here recently, which is giving me some serious cause for concern.

Exhibit A: I met a friend the other day for lunch and afterward I really just had one mission - go to Walmart and pick up supplies for the upcoming trip.  One stop, that's all I needed to do.  I kept telling myself, "Don't forget to turn off on this road to go to Walmart, don't forget to turn off on this road to go to Walmart, don't forget to turn off on this road to to got Walmart."  I was about a mile past the turnoff when it occurred to me that I had missed it all together.  I completely lost all motivation to turnaround and go back so I just went home.

Exhibit B:  I was getting ready for work the other morning, jumped in the shower, got out, was trying to figure out what to wear for the day and started doing my hair and makeup.  As I'm blow drying my hair, I'm thinking, "Ugh - my hair just looks so gross today, like it's still really greasy."  And then as I started thinking, I began to wonder, "Ehhhh - I'm not even sure I shampooed it this morning??"   I honestly couldn't remember - if  I did, I must not have washed out all of the shampoo.  I eventually came to the conclusion that I just didn't bother to shampoo it at all.

I can feel it coming.  These are the early warning signs of the impending train wreck that will be my brain over the next few months, between going overseas, starting a new position at my office, moving into a new apartment and host of other things.  If you see anybody walking around with either a glazed or slightly panicked look, it's probably me.