When You Drop a Pebble, Sometimes It Ripples Back

Being a Special Education Para Educator as well as the mother of a Special Needs offspring has taught me gratitude.  You learn to be grateful for tiny things.  Moreover I have come to judge students by how they treat Special Needs students and whether or not I’d pick them at what I call “The Kid Store”—you know if you just went and picked out a child.  My husband laughs about this last part, but not the first.

Today I found out that I’d made a difference in someone’s life.  A co-worker tracked me down and said that the health tech substitute wanted to see me.  Great, I thought, am I going to have a problem taking my student to the bathroom in the health room after lunch?  I wasn’t even in the ball park.  “Hi, I’m Mrs. Farelli.  My son is Bill.  When I told him I was substituting today he told me to look you up and say hi.  He graduated in 2004.”  Quickly I thumbed through my mental files.  They are full of cobwebs and names have never been my forte, but the minute I put the name Bill with Farelli I knew exactly who she was talking about and I broke into a big smile.

Back in 1999 I moved from the middle school level to the high school with a student who had full blown Autism.  On some levels Michael was/is brilliant, but even acknowledging others was and is difficult for him and I felt at sea in a school full of great big children that were on the brink of adulthood.  Michael was mainstreamed, per the insistence of his parents, so it was that we ended up in a web design class where the teacher considered us as welcome as skunks on a picnic.  Having a student who jumped up to run around and flap his hands every little bit was way too weird.  I knew that I was going to have to work hard to convince the teacher that even though Michael had some weird behaviors, he was pretty computer savvy and really was going to learn something.  I had one thing going for me and that was Bill Farelli.

Bill sat next to Michael at a long line of computers and almost immediately I realized that he was one of those kids I’d take home from the kid store.  Even though Michael seldom even made eye contact, much less talked back, Bill always talked to him.  He rapidly figured out that my student had a mental list of movie titles from which he could tell you whether a movie was live-action or animated, what year it came out and what studio had produced it.  He’d memorized movie catalogues.  Bill would try to stump him and laugh when he couldn’t.  Bill was a reason to look forward to going somewhere I felt so unwelcome.  Now, all these years later, I was standing talking to this lovely boy’s mother!  How lucky I felt to get to tell her how wonderful I think her son is.

“You gave him a gift at Christmas,” Mrs. Farelli said.  “He’s never forgotten that.” I inwardly cringed.  We are NOT supposed to give gifts to students as it can be seen as “grooming.”  I don’t even remember what it was.  It was probably a chocolate Santa.  I do remember what I told him.  I’d told Bill that if he didn’t learn one other thing in his life that he needed to know how powerful the little things we do can be, how his being a friend to my student was like a pebble being dropped into a pond and the ripples went out to touch family and friends.  I guess it stuck because here I was, twelve years later, talking to his mom because he, who is now married and living in CA, had told her to look me up.  See, I was right about Bill.  He’s a keeper!  And I guess I dropped a pebble of my own.

A Rose by Any Other Name

What’s in a name? Quite a lot. When I was growing up during the ‘50s and ‘60s it was unthinkable for an American woman not to take her husband’s last name upon marriage. Families were identified by their last name. Of course divorce was a word that was only whispered, too, but as grounds for divorce were expanded and it became more common the issue of last names became more complicated. I can not only name that tune, but hum a few bars. When my parents divorced my mother returned to her “maiden name” but since I was 18 and an only child, I didn’t much care what she called herself. There was no family in my opinion.

Growing up I wasn’t over fond of my last name. I got teased a lot. “What’s your mother’s name--Deep?” And of course during the ‘60s television show Batman it came to include, “Your dad must be Mr. Freeze.” I heard them all. My best friend’s last name was Beard. The teasing was one of our early bonds. We were the girls with the funny last names. Neither of us was upset to quit our last names when we married. Stephanie Casey. There’d be no problem there. And there weren’t even when six years and three children later we divorced. I was offered a chance to return to the last name of Frieze, but my ex-husband was giving me enough problems about the children and I wanted to make sure that there was no doubt about who their mother was.

Then I married again. “Kianersi”—an Iranian name that Americans inevitably try to make a nice Polish “Kianerski.” In Iran women do not take on their husband’s last names and I probably should have opted to stick with Casey or return to my “maiden” name right then. Another child and another divorce later my mother asked me if I was going, “to go back to using your Casey name.” What sort of message was that going to send to my four-year-old son? That I loved his brothers and sister more than him? No, by then I knew that the only last name I wanted was the one my dad had given me. After 36 years I’d grown up enough to value my connection to my father’s family more than what anyone else thought.

So when I remarried in 1990 I never took on my husband’s last name—Haeck. We talked about names. In turns he offered to legally adopt all of my children or change his name to Frieze. Aside from ending whatever meager child support I received from Mr. Casey, I knew that neither father was going to be happy about having their children adopted by another man. Nope. Not an option. And I knew that my own big family was going to have a hard enough time integrating into Mr. Haeck’s (pronounced “hake” and originally spelled H-o-e-c-h) family. If he changed his name to mine it would not be a good way to start off a life together. Our best man counseled against hyphenating our last name since Frieze-Haeck “sounds like something you’d find in the frozen food section of the grocery store.” No one can properly pronounce either of these German names. Prior to caller ID it made it easy to know when a sales person had called the house.

I supposed technically some court somewhere considers me to be Mrs. Haeck, but when people used to call asking to speak to Mrs. Haeck I’d tell them that my mother-in-law didn’t live with us, but I could supply her phone number. I was in my righteous period, letting people know that I wasn’t chattel belonging to my husband. I got that. I’d never understood why on contracts women were referred to as “a married woman,” but men were not “married men.”

When I began working in schools I tried to be Ms. Frieze. Mrs. Frieze was my grandmother. It was weird. “Ms.” has never really caught on. I’m traditional enough to prefer that the students not call me by my first name. I’m still formal enough to call my aunts and uncles by “Aunt” and “Uncle.” My younger aunt and uncle have repeatedly said that it was not necessary, that they could be Sandra and Jerry. No they can’t. “Aunt” and “Uncle” are my claim on them. They are not passing acquaintances, they are family, my family.

In my own nuclear family it has been interesting. My Brazilian formerly-married to-someone-else-daughter-in-law has kept not her maiden name, but her mother’s maiden name. I certainly understand that. My other daughter-in-law, who grew up Heckle (think Heckle and Jeckle) opted for “Casey.” I get that, too. All three of Dave’s nieces who married last year chose to take their husbands names as did his new sister-in-law. Even though they are different generations, they are traditionalists. If my youngest son, who is old enough to be Mr. Kianersi now, ever marries it will be interesting to see how his bride handles this question.

I never quite understood why my step-sister, Stephanie Ann, called my step-mother by her first name or why Phyllis let her. Which brings up a minor victory this holiday season. My step-mother, who’d seen me through two divorces, was content to let me be Stephanie Frieze (although she thought it was weird) as long as I was unmarried, but as soon as I married Mr. Haeck I became Mrs. David Haeck, thus losing my tentative grip on identity. Why this woman would let her daughter call her by her Christian name, but could not let me be who I was, was annoying. “You’re his wife. That’s who you are.” Cards, letters and checks eventually began to arrive to “Mrs. Stephanie Haeck,” but the check thing was a nightmare. I politely asked that at least the checks be written to “Stephanie Frieze” since Dave and I didn’t even share a bank, much less a name. I disliked having to stand at the bank cashier’s window and recite my entire life story in order to cash a check. Finally, finally, finally, a crack in the wall of this otherwise dear woman appeared this year when a letter arrived addressed to “Mrs. Stephanie Frieze-Haeck.” Coming from her, I’ll take being a frozen fish.

In the House of Memory: Ancient Celtic Wisdom for Everyday Life

Dave tells me that I am in with the in-crowd because for Christmas I got both of the top two best sellers on the New York Times list, Stephen King’s 11/22/63 which I actually got two copies of and so Dave returned one and got me Death Comes to Pemberley by P. D. James because I love Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. I like Jane Austen for her romances so I don’t know about this last one. We’ll see.

For returning to my job at Gig Harbor High School I chose to take In the House of Memory: Celtic Wisdom for Everyday Life, by Steve Rabey. This is one I bought for myself on my 60th birthday nearly a year ago and is not too big to lug all over the building. We’d gone to Victoria, B.C. and no visit there is complete without a visit to Monro’s Books. I hate to see the disappearance of book stores and was glad that the stately Monro’s is still in business and crowded. I guess I’m not the only one who loves physical books.

In the House of Memory explores Celtic spirituality from Ancient times to its influence on Christianity and a delight for anyone with spiritual or emotional ties to Scotland, Ireland and Wales. Many Americans, myself included, are of Celtic stock. Are we not more plentiful here than there? I’ve been interested in Ancient Celtic spirituality for some time—drawn on some sort of molecular level so this book will keep me well entertained at lunch and during breaks.

Olalla Polar Bear Club 2012

It’s New Year’s Day and for most of the 21 years we’ve lived in Gig Harbor Dave has participated in the Polar Bears’ jump off the Olalla Bridge a noon on New Year’s Day. Today was the mildest in memory. We’ve slipped and slid in snow out the windy hills to the hamlet of Olalla for this event. Although participation in this event holds nothing for me, it is not a mystery as to why Dave does it. In short, he has a thrill seeking gene. When he asks where mine is, I tell him that I satisfied it marrying him.

The event at the Olalla Bridge has been going on for twenty-seven years. The crowds of people and cars have caused authorities to threaten to shut down the event, but in all the years we’ve gone I’ve never seen anyone get hurt or there to be any sort of altercation requiring the police. They come, but mostly to make sure that the gawkers don’t wander out in front of cars.

At noon (or just before in today’s case) a cannon is fired and people of all ages and garb (and occasionally sans garb) jump off the side of the bridge over Olalla’s lagoon. There’s a bonfire on the beach to warm the jumpers and there’s free coffee and cocoa at Al’s Store. There you can pick up your certificate and buy a sweat shirt, the money from which goes to the food bank.

There weren’t a lot of costumes this year, but there were a few including a pair of ladies in black bathing suits who had 2-0-1-2 written on their bums in black marker. There was also a cowboy and an angel and of course Dave in his Goofy hat, a birthday gift from my son Frank and his family.

I was able to snap Dave’s picture just before the pulled off his sweatshirt, but he jumped before I could make it down to the beach to get his picture. I think that was on purpose as he said he didn’t want his picture taken with his shirt off.

Saying Goodbye to 2011

2011 was not particularly good to us and I need to feel that I am working physically as well as emotionally toward a better 2012.

I really like New Year’s. I don’t get gussied up and go out and drink; I’m lucky if I’m awake to ring it in by watching Seattle’s KING5 broadcast of the celebration at the Space Needles, but I like New Year’s just the same. I wonder if Catholics feel about confession the way I feel about New Year’s. Absolution. Of course one could choose any day to embark on new habits, but there’s something about the collectivity of knowing that so many others are doing the same thing and the notion of a brand new year inspires me to get organized—a yearly resolve that meets with a little more success each year.

We returned from eight days at our home on the coast to discover that my son Frank had gotten us down the road on the process of organization by having cleaned the family room, the laundry room and the kitchen. I could have kissed him, but he was passed out on his bed as he’d stayed up all night cleaning for me. There is still debris from his, Ana’s and Gabriel’s celebration of Christmas strewn around the living room, but considering the mess that usually is left in the wake of Ana’s preparation to take Gabriel to Brazil for a month, I was gob-smacked at how well the house looked.

I have a few days of my break from my job at Gig Harbor High School left and am determined to get as much done as possible with the time left. People talk about Spring Cleaning, but I find Winter Cleaning and the sense of starting the year afresh much more satisfying. 2011 was not particularly good to us and I need to feel that I am working physically as well as emotionally toward a better 2012.

I’ve started excavating the refrigerator of its science experiments while the washing machine hums with the laundry we left and that which we brought home. I’m also making a pile for Goodwill. That is an ongoing process—to get rid of as much of what I’ve spent nearly sixty years collecting—and now I’ve decided to be ruthless. I am overly sentimental and my children are decidedly not. If I pare down my pile now there will be less to deal with when we move along whether it is to Ilwaco permanently or just…well…along.

December 7th, Seventy Years Later

A Sentimental Journey

It has been seventy years since the attack on Pearl Harbor and the surrounding airfields including Kaneohe where my father, Conrad R. Frieze and his brother Richard S. Frieze were on December 7th 1941.  There are few survivors left and as their Baby Boomer children age I wonder if that date will become just another date on the calender.  Twenty years ago I was substituting for a teacher's aid at a middle school on Dec. 7th and was appalled that the young teacher of the resource history class wasn't sure if the attack on Pearl Harbor was the beginning or the end of WWII for the United States.  It made me physically ill that the Peninsula School District has anyone that ignorant teaching school.

Beginning in 1981 my father went to Pearl for memorials every ten years. When he died in 2002 I’d intended to go for him for the 70th anniversary, but our financial situation changed in the meantime and the time away from work and the money such a trip would cost wasn’t in the budget.

Last week my darling husband Dave saw an article in the News Tribune about a PBY Memorial Foundation that has been set up at the Sea Plane Base at Oak Harbor NAS. One day away from work and a ferry ride between Port Townsend and Whidbey Island was doable. It was a bonus that Oak Harbor NAS was my Uncle Dick’s last post before he retired from the Navy and Whidbey Island is not unfamiliar to me.

I was able to arrange an excellent sub to be with my student at school and so I was set. Then it occurred to me that the museum to which we were going might enjoy having a large pen and ink drawing of a PBY which I had inherited from my father. We have a lot of wall space in our cathedral ceiled living room in Gig Harbor, but when we move to our home in Ilwaco there will be no such wall space. Since my father, who was many things including an artist, did not draw the picture I could part with it and believe that he would have approved so down it came.

The base was having a ceremony to commemorate December 7th, but it was to be at 8:30 AM. We might have gone the night before and stayed in a motel, but between a dog and a Special Needs daughter it didn’t seem advisable. I had to be content with visiting the museum and taking them my picture.

Oak Harbor was dressed in American flags in part for December 7th and because the last large squadron from Oak Harbor NAS returned from Iraq this week. When we arrived at Building 12, where the museum is housed we took pictures of the buttoned up PBY parked next to the building. I had never been that close to the sort of plane my dad and Uncle Dick fought back from on that Sunday morning. Seeing the waist hatch I could almost see those two, just babies really—19 and 20—with my father feeding his older brother ammo while Uncle Dick thudded away on a fifty caliber machine gun and even downing a Japanese Zero or so our family mythology goes. We cannot prove that it was Uncle Dick’s hunting prowess that brought down the Zero who once disabled crashed into a hangar, but as far as I am concerned, those two boys were true American heroes.

Inside Building 12 we were greeted by Richard Rezabek, the chairman of the board of trustees for the PBY Memorial Foundation. When I told him that I had a picture I wanted to donate he and the other docents were thrilled. Dave brought the picture in and it was ooed and ahhed over. I donated it in memory of my father and was delighted that it had a home where more people would see it and it would be well cared for.

The paperwork done, Dave and I wandered around the exhibits viewing bits and pieces of the PBY’s past. I could almost feel my dad walking beside me telling me about what I was seeing. How I wished he was. There are certain days that I miss him more than others and December 7th certainly is one of them.

While focusing on WWII and the Navy’s use of the PBY, there are other exhibits there was well from the Korean War in which my father’s younger brother was a Sea Bee, and the War in Vietnam. As I walked around and viewed the exhibits it occurred to me that I have other memorabilia that might be best served by being at this museum and will probably donate more things in the near future. We were told that during the summer the PBY on display outside will be open for viewing and I think a family outing that includes children and grandchildren would be wonderful.  The museum is open Wed. - Sat., 8 AM to 5 PM.  You need photo ID and car registration to get onto the base.

I am older, by a long shot, than my grandmother was seventy years ago tonight when she lay awake in her cousin’s bed in Bona, Missouri listening to the radio reports about the attack and the deaths at Pearl Harbor. It would be several days before she arrived back in Vancouver, Washington and received a telegram from my father and Uncle Dick telling her and Grandpa that they were well and wishing them a Merry Christmas. How they must have suffered not knowing if their oldest children were dead or alive. As the mother of sons I am well able now to appreciate how young they were and how my grandparents must have felt.

This is not the most comfortable subject, but I believe it is worthy of discussion—namely “hen pecking.” The dictionary definition is “To dominate or harass (one’s husband) with persistent nagging.” Before you get your dander up ladies, I am well aware that the nagging street runs in all directions, but as a hen myself I recently had cause to examine my own behavior.

We all criticize our mates when we are tired, don’t feel well, or when they are acting like idiots. Hopefully most of us remember to compliment them when they not only do something extraordinary, but also when they do the ordinary. Years ago I learned to literally count my blessings and find delight in the mundane, but like anyone else I can get into a rut of feeling sorry for myself or put upon. I try to remember to tell my husband how much I appreciate it when he carries the laundry basket upstairs, unloads the dishwasher (even if things get put back in wrong spots) or makes a funny joke. Everyone likes to feel valued and too often we forget to value those we are supposed to love the most.

I am reminded of the time my daughter-in-law’s ex-husband and his current wife came to our house. Obviously this man is not a prince—if he were my son would have missed out on a special princess—but upon introduction the man is charming. The same cannot be said for his wife who made herself look like “the-world’s-worst-wife” by berating him constantly. The result was that he looked not only charming, but patient. She might have thought that our family would be predisposed to not like this man, but instead we certainly had no respect for her. I think that we can get so caught up in our feelings of being put upon that we forget how our behavior will look to others.

Every once in a while we need to remind ourselves to be kind to those we love and to save the disagreements for private times.  Remember, you don't always have to be number one in the pecking order!