The surprising wonder of sunrises and strangers …

 

By Mary Kay Roth

Once upon a time, circling Holmes Lake at dawn was a solitary experience for me.   

These days, however, when I walk around the lake path I pause to say hello to Barb and her pup, Reacher, a Rottweiler who has won countless awards. I holler encouragement to the woman who jogs around the trail at least four times each morning. I stroll a bit with Mike and his German Shepherd, Fiona, and take a picture of the guy who asks – at least once a week – for a photograph of the fish he caught that day.

These moments of easy banter are not particularly momentous or consequential. But lately I’ve been considering otherwise, embracing the potential value and wonder of our simple, basic connections – with strangers.

I read somewhere that we are losing the ability to chat, to ask superficial questions that offer a bridge to polite nattering: “Can you believe this weather?” How’s your day going so far?”  “What about those Huskers?”  

I don’t mean to discount the value of deeper discussion – yes, rich and meaningful dialogue is critical.  

But there’s a lovely, even profound civility to the act of reaching out to someone you don’t know.  Offering up a nod or a smile.  Chatting and talking about inconsequential matters like the weather forecast, the changing seasons, colors of the morning sky.

Over the past year, almost every morning as I walked the lake trail, three or four young guys have been jogging around me – and I was sure they paid no attention to me.  Then one day my dog had to stay home because she hurt her paw, and as the young men dashed around me that morning – a voice emerged from the dawn’s dark: “Where’s your dog?  Is she ok?”

I told them she was fine and that her name was Zuzu, and ever since they say hello to Zu every loop around the lake.

Journalist David Sax – who specializes in writing about popular culture – notes that, not so long ago, it was impossible to go through life without speaking to a variety of strangers in your life: Bus drivers, baristas, bartenders, receptionists, store cashiers.  Today our experiences are increasingly insular as we shop, travel, eat – walk around the lake – wearing headphones and never uttering a sound to another human being.  Then, to complicate matters even further, the pandemic arrived and suddenly every physical encounter with a stranger carried the potential of death. 

In a world where we seem to be witnessing the slow and frigid death of social closeness, however, strangers are possibly one of the richest and most important resources we have. They have the potential of connecting us to the larger community in fresh ways, of bringing us unexpected surprise and variety. 

If we engaged only with the people we knew, our world would be small, Sax says. “That leap of faith toward the unknown ‘other’ is what allows us to grow beyond the family unit, tribe or even nation.” 

I’m not sure my morning chats will solve the world’s problems. God forbid we talk about anything substantive like politics or religion.  But I see them as building blocks in our social contract.

“Talking to a stranger pulls you into a shared humanity, it’s a source of creative energy, it opens your world,” writes Kio Stark, author of When Strangers Meet.  “It’s a beautiful interruption in the expected narrative of your daily life – and theirs. Talking to strangers wakes you up.”

Several months ago, I had a rather unpleasant encounter with a guy whose two sizeable dogs were running off leash at the lake. I expressed my displeasure – then he expressed his displeasure at my displeasure. Later, when I saw him return the dogs to his van, I noted his bumper sticker proclaiming, “F *** Biden.”  Well dang, I thought in judgment. Of course. 

The next time I saw him coming along the path (his dogs on leash), I took a deep breath of daring.  “There’s the dog police,” he proclaimed.  “There’s the guy who apparently listened to the dog police,” I replied. There was a deadly pause, and then – miracle of miracles – we both laughed. 

This week New York Times columnist David Brooks wrote a column he called, “Why Your Social Life is Not What it Should Be.”  In the article Brooks cited Nicholas Epley, a behavioral scientist whose research determined that the great majority of people under-estimate how much they will enjoy chatting with a stranger – hence the use of headphones, cell phones, earplugs.  Only 7 percent said they would talk to a stranger in a waiting room, only 24 percent on a train.  (Strangely, there was no data for talking to a stranger as you walk around a lake.)

The good news, Epley’s research indicated, is that people are systemically mistaken – as even the most anxiety-drenched people reported they actually enjoyed an exchange when they took a risk. 

Brooks concludes: “My general view is that the fate of America will be importantly determined by how we treat each other in the smallest acts of daily life.”

Small acts of daily life come in all shapes and sizes, of course, and in all kinds of places … your gym, bus stop, bar, coffeeshop. After our morning walks, at least once a week, Zuzu and I swing around a local coffeeshop – where all the coffee servers now crowd around the tiny drive-through window to offer Zu a dog biscuit and ask about our sunrise that day.  

Bottom line, I am a confirmed introvert who loves sitting in the stillness of the lake and watching the dawn sky come to life.  But there is also something quite powerful – when hundreds of books and magazine articles address the breakdown of social relationships – in pushing past my default discomfort and in reaching out:

• To the woman who wears the same orange shirt each day as she runs along the trail, shyly whispers hello, and to whom I have wished a daily “good morning” for more than a year.  
• To the lovely couple with two black poodles who rescued my lost car keys. 
• To the woman, dressed in a long dress and hijab, who stood beside me one particularly lovely dawn and spoke haltingly but clearly, “I am new to Nebraska. Is it always so beautiful here?” – and to whom I gave a hug, said I was so glad she had come to our community and never saw again.

But that’s ok, because tomorrow at sunrise on my walk around Holmes Lake, I know there will always be a new stranger coming along the path. 

We're Always Coming of Age

by Penny Costello

The phrase "coming-of-age story" most often brings to mind the image of an adolescent or teenager becoming an adult. Merriam Webster defines “coming of age” as the attainment of prominence, respectability, recognition, or maturity. I have come to believe that coming of age is not a one and done deal.

I recently had the chance to visit Bruce, a dear old friend in Colorado, whom I met when I moved to Boulder in 1977 to attend the University of Colorado. At the time, my cousin owned a liquor store in Boulder. My older brother worked there, and so did Bruce.

The first time I met him, I stopped into the liquor store to see my brother, and Bruce greeted me from behind the cash register. It was one of those “when our eyes met” moments. It wasn’t love at first sight, but it was most certainly friendship at first sight. One of those priceless moments when you see someone, and you recognize each other as if you’ve known each other forever in spite of the fact that you’ve never met. There is a sense of “I’m glad you finally showed up. I’ve been waiting for you. Let’s go play.”

Coming of Age circa 1978

I can still see his eyes and his smile in that moment. He was in his mid-twenties, and I was nineteen. As a friend and a peer, he was far enough ahead of me in his coming-of-age process that he offered guidance, perspective, and advice when I needed it, and sometimes when I didn’t think I needed it. Those are the truest of friends – they hold up a mirror that reflects both what is fabulous and what is flawed in us. We can laugh and cry with them, and rage against the forces that threaten to limit what is possible when we want more. They help us grow into the people we want to be, and the magic and memories of that journey last a lifetime.

Throughout the years I lived in Colorado, Bruce was my best friend, my confidante, my play mate, my person. He helped me navigate that tenuous road into adulthood. His friendship, acceptance, encouragement, and humor made it a downright enjoyable journey.

Then life took us in different directions. We lived in different states, married other people, developed careers and families, and made lives. We kept in touch to the extent that we always knew where the other lived, we visited each other a few times in our travels, but we didn’t talk or see each other often. Yet our friendship has sustained.

So, when we had a chance to meet for breakfast on a recent trip through Boulder, I was very excited to see him. Back in the 70s when we were watching the Grateful Dead, Bruce Springsteen, and Joni Mitchell at Red Rocks Amphitheatre, I’m sure it never occurred to me that one day I would introduce Bruce to my grandchildren. But here we were. My granddaughter, close to the same age I was when I met him, going into her second year of college, as was I when I met him, listened to our stories with polite interest.

As we chatted over breakfast, Bruce told me about his family, his sons, and his grandchildren. While relaying a story about one of his grandsons, he said, “You know, it’s a coming-of-age story.” And something in my brain popped.

We’re always coming of age. That’s what life is. A series of coming-of-age stories. Forty-five years ago, when we met, we were looking ahead to the lives we would create. Much of it was exciting, fun, and the world was ours for the taking or making. And now here we sat, talking about grandchildren, retirement, whether to downsize, how to adapt to limited incomes and still make the absolute best of the years we have left with no idea or guarantee of how many years that may be. 

Coming of Age, 2022

In the midst of all that "Boomer" talk, if my granddaughter or anyone else had thought to ask if we felt four decades older, I'm sure both of our answers would be a resounding "NO!"

In many ways, the road ahead is just as uncertain and undefined as it was when we were 19 and 24. Then we wondered what we would make of our lives and our world. Now, while we hope what we’ve made will be enough, that it will be of benefit, and that our time here will have made life better for others, we also hope there is another chapter ahead for us. We’re still coming of age. And we’ll continue to do that until we stop aging.

What a gift it is to have that kind of friendship. To be able to gaze into the face of a person you’ve known for so long, to see past the gray hair and laugh lines and recognize that timeless, ageless spirit that greeted you with a smile from behind the register at that liquor store so long ago. And then you pick up the conversation right where you left off. Time has no meaning. The memories, laughter, and connection sustain no matter how many coming-of-age stories you’ve traveled through, or how many more may be to come.

The moral of the story is this: Coming-of-age is a journey, not a destination, and each day offers the chance to share laughter and memories with a friend, or to be a positive force in someone’s life. That is also a gift. I’m grateful for the purpose, hope, and life force that realization provides as I continue coming of age. 

 Like and follow us on Facebook @5 Women Mayhem

Five Women Mayhem Honors our Community’s Quiet Heroes: Our Teachers

In the coming weeks, more than 3.1 million educators across our country will arrive for their first day of the 2022-23 school year. 

So, as we approach this annual momentous occasion, the writers at Five Women Mayhem honor our community’s quiet heroes with our own personal stories. Stories about teachers who touched our lives. Stories about teachers whose joy, wonder, heart and hard work – made a difference. 

This week, Lincoln’s public and private schools open for business. Teachers, good luck on your very first day of class.  We wish you well.

Praise to Those Teachers Who Refuse to Give Up by Mary Kay Roth

By the time my daughter, Anna, reached her senior year – barely – she had given up on school. During her middle and high school years, many a tenacious teacher had attempted to reach her as we tried various schools, strategies, enticements.

She was just “one of those kids.”

One of those kids who didn’t quite fit.  Who claimed she hated school.  Who seemed to almost disappear into the niches and crannies of the classroom.

When we hit grade 12, we found the Arts and Humanities Focus Program at Lincoln Public Schools, a place we thought would be Anna’s salvation.  And yet, barely a semester into the year, she stopped trying.

“Let me drop out,” she pleaded.  “Tom Cruise is a high school dropout – did you know that?”

Good grief.

Then, one evening, a simple phone call turned into a lifeline – a call from  Arts and Humanities teacher John Clark, who said he was simply checking in.

I don’t remember everything about that call, but I know I cried and told him I was clueless about how to help my daughter.  And I do remember exactly what Mr. Clark said: “We are not going to lose Anna.  I won’t let that happen. I see something in her, something special.”

He suggested she come meet with him to map out a plan.  Miraculously, she went – and to this day I’m not sure how Mr. Clark wove his magic. But over the coming months – through independent study, creative assignments and perhaps shear force of will – Mr. Clark literally pulled Anna through high school.

Yes, even after graduation my wonderfully stubborn daughter kept taking detours, but eventually found her footing and is now a certified nurse practitioner.  And at each milestone along the way, each graduation, Mr. Clark has come to help us celebrate, giving us that unassuming shrug and claiming it was all Anna – not him.

Frankly, it remains a mystery to me why some kids like Anna struggle so mightily in school.  But it’s no mystery how they are saved: One teacher who cares.  One teacher who takes the time to make that phone call. One teacher who “sees something special."

In honor of the first day of school, I raise a carton of school milk to teachers like Mr. Clark who refuse to give up on any child.

Bless you all.

 

***** 

Mrs. Teter by Marilyn Moore

Cora Teter was my high school senior English teacher.  I was surprised when I met her, because to my 17-year-old eyes, she looked old.  She wasn’t old, she was my mom’s age.  But to a 17-year-old, that was old.  I realize now that most of the teachers I had in my small town rural high school were young.  They were new grads, in their first teaching job, and they would stay a couple of years, and then move on to a bigger school, where they wouldn’t have to teach seven preps, coach at least one team, sponsor at least one club, and maybe direct the class play, too.  But Mrs. Teter was local, from a neighboring town, and returned to teaching after having mostly raised her family.  So she was new, but with a life of experiences in the fall of 1967.  I realize now she also had a wry sense of humor, but I don’t know if I recognized it then.

I don’t remember much about the senior English curriculum.  I’m sure we read some British and American poetry.  We probably read some Shakespeare.  We studied, again, all the tricky parts of grammar, word usage, and sentence structure.  And we wrote the dreaded senior English research paper. 

I don’t remember my topic at all.  I do remember having a timeline with specific steps to follow, turning in the work along the way.  I remember taking notes on 3x5 index cards, looking up resources in the library’s card catalog.  Old tools, young readers will not recognize these.  But it’s what we had.

What I remember most about that senior paper is the feedback I received.  I don’t remember the grade, but I remember the comment.  On the last page, she wrote, “Good research skills, Marilyn.  You will use this same process when you write your dissertation.”  It was the word “dissertation.”  Never had I thought of that word and my name in the same sentence.  I knew I was headed to college the next year, but graduate school wasn’t even a term I knew.  Her words planted a seed, an idea, a glimpse of something possible, and I have never forgotten them. 

This is one story, of one teacher, and one student.  What I know to be true is that every teacher has a student, past, present, or future, who will say the same thing…a teacher who planted a seed, an idea, a glimpse of something possible.  The teacher who said just the right words at just the right time.  On behalf of students everywhere, thank you.

*****

A Hand on the Shoulder by JoAnne Young

As a child, I judged my elementary teachers on how friendly they were. All my secondary teachers had to do was make some effort to be interesting. 

When I had kids of my own, I judged teachers a little differently. Did they understand my child? Did they try to bring out the best in them? Did they stimulate their imaginations and teach them how to learn? 

One of their teachers at Randolph Elementary stood out: Karen Ellis, an art teacher who was, for many years, the first and only elementary art specialist for Lincoln Public Schools. 

She engaged the kids at Randolph in stained glass windows and murals, mosaics and mobiles. She took her students’ work into the community, so they could see the world react to their creativity. She was a passionate advocate for art in the schools, believing it had value for all children. 

Art should come from the heart, she once said. Kids should be taught more than to color between the lines.

When she moved to Bryan Community, she lovingly introduced teens to what they could create, surprising even them with what could come from within. 

Amy Skorohod is one I remember. She had lost interest in school and dropped out of Northeast. She was persuaded to give it one more try at Bryan, where the struggling teen signed up for a class with Ellis. She found a teacher who was willing to listen to her, to put a hand on her shoulder when needed, the underpinning of support that helped Amy fit in, and then go forward to a successful life. 

Ellis gifted her students with love and creation and art for 30 years. Then, in the very early days of 2002, she died of a sudden, unexpected heart attack at age 49. 

I remember attending her funeral and barely being able to hold it together. Karen Ellis touched me in a way few people who are not family or close friends have. 

It was her knowing that kids needed someone to sit with them and listen as they discovered their creative longings. To risk making mistakes. To reflect on their lives. To see their curiosity quotient shoot up. 

“Our kids need that more than anything in the world,” Ellis said. 

Thank you, Karen Ellis, for all you did for our kids. And thank you to all those following her today. You are needed more than ever.  

 

*****

 Sister Jacinta By Mary Reiman

That’s where it started. My love affair with inspiring teachers. That admiration lasted throughout my educational journey and my professional career. I can’t name them all. There are so many. Instead, I will tell you where it began.

Sister Jacinta. Perhaps I just loved saying her name. She was my first and second grade teacher. In our Catholic school there was no kindergarten, so she was truly my first introduction into the world of formal education. In that era, a Franciscan nun wore a habit. A long black robe with a black veil and a white coif. The coif is a close fitting cap that covers the top, back, and sides of the head. We could not see the color or style of her hair, but always wondering about it!

The only feature we could really see was her face. That was all I needed to see. Those sparkling eyes and her genuine smile were all this first grader needed to know she would be well taken care of at school. Sister Jacinta’s beauty came from the inside. That’s the most important thing I learned in my first two school years. Any goodness, kindness or generosity in my soul that was not formulated by my parents, was developed from watching her.

She was tall and thin and even on a hot spring day she would run around the bases on the baseball field and never look tired or hot or cranky. We would come in from recess and put our heads on our desks while she read us a story. She didn’t have time to relax, but we did.

And wax heated in the old coffee cans on hotplates would definitely not comply with OSHA standards today. But I vividly remember standing in line as we carefully hand dipped our red Christmas candles until they were just the right thickness. I still have that red candle. 

Sister Jacinta was magical and that was just the beginning of the magic I’ve seen from so many fabulous teachers throughout my years in education. 

For all of them, I am most grateful.

 *****

Vielen Herzlichen Dank! Frau Flagstad by Penny Costello

When I remember my teachers in high school, several come to mind who certainly made an impression. But only one stands out as my all-time favorite teacher.

I took four years of German in high school. The language itself was interesting to me, but it was Frau Flagstad who kept me coming back each year. She loved the language, and she loved igniting the spark of learning in her students. She made it fun, and she instilled a desire to experience the language, history, and culture by sharing her own stories of her travels there, stories about the people, the music, the food.

Frau, as we called her, exuded kindness and competence. She spoke Deutsch as easily as she spoke English, and she had a way of letting students know that, while it seemed like an awkward mouthful at first, she had total faith in our ability to gain the same skills and fluency.

She was someone I looked forward to seeing every day. I was a ranch kid who boarded in town during the week during my freshman and sophomore years. I walked by her house on the way to and from school.

In class, we were invited to choose a German first name, and she would address each student by their chosen name. I chose Michaela, which she shortened to Micha. The “ch” was pronounced with an airy, soft sound from the back of the throat, rather than a hard “ch” sound like in “chip”.

High school is such a cauldron of peer pressure and presumption about who we are based on where we live, who our parents or siblings are, who we hang out with, what we wear. At that point in time, in the mid-1970s, to be given the opportunity to choose how we would be identified within the culture we were learning about was empowering in ways I couldn’t fully appreciate then, but I certainly do now.

My family went through some tough times during those years. While I was boarding in town during the week, my parents were moving toward divorce, and within three years, the ranch that had been in my father’s family for four generations would be sold. The home I had always known would be gone. 

In those same four years, I joined our school’s German Club. I also joined the National German Club, which gave me the opportunity to travel with Frau and a few other students to Gunnison, Colorado for its convention one year. I ended up spending a month in Germany as an exchange student in the summer between my sophomore and junior years. We had shared interests, both of us were avid downhill skiers. We got to know each other as people, and as friends. She made my world bigger and better.

At the beginning of my senior year, I experienced a serious injury playing varsity basketball that put me in the hospital for 19 days. The day before I was released, my mother came to see me and told me she was going to be remarried the following day. I wasn’t crazy about the idea, and I was somewhat relieved to have an excuse not to go to her wedding.

On the first night of her second marriage, while my mom was having a honeymoon dinner with her new husband, he choked on a bite of steak and died. That Monday, I went to Frau’s class. I handed her the slip to excuse my absence for the past three weeks due to my injury. And then I handed her the slip that would excuse my absence in a few days when I would attend my mother’s husband’s funeral.

She signed both, and she told me how stunned she was upon hearing about his death, and how unbelievable it all seemed. It was unbelievable. But her compassion and empathy for me in that moment made it bearable. And her presence in my life, her kindness, and her friendship through those years provided hope, fun, laughter, inspiration, and stability that helped shape the person I would become. I hope I’ve sufficiently honored the examples that she set as a teacher, a mentor, a friend, and the kind of person she still is in the world.

Frau Flagstad, you’ll be pleased to know that I do remember ein bisschen (a little) Deutsch after all these years. Please accept meine vielen herzlichen Dank! The impact you’ve had on my life and in the lives of countless students will live on for generations. Tschüss, bis später.

– Micha -

*****

 

Like and follow us on Facebook @5 Women Mayhem