So What's Next?

2011-05-31T15:17:00.000-07:00

TIME

So I was lounging next to the pool. Something had changed.My primary objective was to relax, but how could I entertain the exquisite when something was amiss. Fora second, dismissal for investigation strengthened with a sip of my Pinot Gris,but even the tang of citrus and floral mid-palate complexity couldn’t kick whatwas haunting me.

Examination of every detail was perused with scrutiny. Theflagstone path that leads to the pool was sparkling clean. The brilliance of ournewly installed glass and Cooper etched doors was an Artists dream. I admiredhow the pattern of soft Hopi art blended perfectly with a wave of thinlyengraved spiny vines that lay perfectly against a gentle bevel before sinkinginto shinning splendor. The investment, I reflected,was worth every saved penny.

The water, as usual, beckoned me to test its cool solution:the perfect mix of muriatic acid chased with a dash of salt. All Cacti wasshaded perfectly by fanning tentacles of swaying Queen Palms. Even the cruxy ebb and flow from the waterfall pouredwith perfection. But curiosity kept poking at me. Something didn’t fit. So what was it? Myquestioning mind would not let it go, so trusting my intuition, I allowed mytoes to fan the water. Briefly. It wasn’t that…With libation safe on tabletop, I probed further and with arocking to and fro, I took notice that all Periwinkles, Lavender sage andBlack-eye Susan’s swayed in Earth’s harmony, still yet, an anomaly persisted.I gave up and splintered mystubborn in half. “Do you noticeanything different back here?”

My man surveyed carefully. Using his index finger he tappedhis chin twice so as to project his concern. “Nope.” Then with water containerin hand he disappeared into the bloom. Somewhat satisfied that my answer lay inmore celebration I resigned myself to another glass of glory.

Meandering methodically toward the house, I was visited bymemory of lore that says that once one lets go of tribulation, answers will rollin like thunder; and in that second, folklore turned to reality. Like a flashof a camera, my Beach-babe-self ceasedto exist! I could not escape that the roll had resonated around my mid-drift,while the thunder had planted itself firmly on my thighs!

So what was amiss?

Nothing really… I’m told…

So what if my bod is no longer fit for poolsideentertainment!

I can still swim.

And I can swim reallyfast.

Damn those doors!

ROBIN'S VERSION OF CHOCOLATE MOUSSE

2011-05-06T17:21:00.000-07:00

WILL YOU HAVE YOURS WITH OR WITHOUT?

I first discovered chocolate mousse at Edward’s Mansion Restaurant located (once upon a time) in Redlands, California. You couldn’t miss it. It was an old Victorian style three story, with a Widow’s Walk, and sat about 500 yards off the I-10 out in the middle of nowhere. The menu, with no surprise, was as detailed and quaint as the old house. I wasn’t that hungry, so I decided on dessert. Chocolate Mousse… Need I say more? Yes. I need to say more… It was the most perfect chocolate I had ever tasted. It was dark with a bit of a bite, and it was velvet creamy. The chocolate was rich and full flavored. I was in Heaven…

I realized the following day that the perfect mousse in the world, lay in wait for me almost four torturous hours away, and being a frugal sort at the time, more trips up the road was not the solution to my problem, so into the kitchen I went…for days…and weeks…until…Violá!

Robin C’s Dark-Dark Chocolate Mousse (Without)

Ingredients for Six 4-6oz. serving sizes:

2 cups chilled heavy whipping crème

1 pasteurized egg white

1/2 cup (or to taste) Dark Chocolate Cocoa Powder

3 Tbsp raw sugar (or to taste – some will need more sweet)

1 tsp. Vanilla

2 Tbsp. butter

Heat butter in microwave until it is melted (usually no more that 35 seconds)

Use a whisk or blend electrically (very low speed) heavy whipping crème, and pasteurized egg white, until fluffy. Using a rubber spatula, fold in vanilla, sugar, and melted butter into fluffy mixture. Add cocoa until the batter is moist and blended.

Portion mousse into glass serving dishes.

Garnish with mint leaf or shaved white chocolate pieces

Chill (refrigerator is fine) until ready to serve.

Robin C’s Dark-Dark Chocolate Mousse (With)

Follow the above directions; however, increase cocoa to ¾ cup

Flavor with your choice (or use in combination…oh my…) Amaretto, or Grand Marnier.

2011-01-22T19:45:00.000-08:00

A Classic Retelling

And when

she stood before it, grand, majestic, like a story told, and open just a sliver, she peaked.

Curious.

Her boot,

fashioned and perfect fit, rested against it, tapped, then wedged, then acted without foot, and leaned against it, pretending invitation.

Fictitious.

Entering now

where permission not lay, the locks-headed girl called in whisper, Is anyone home?

Quiet.

Beginning inspection

of table adorned in linen, white, china, gold trimmed, etched crystal, candlesticks, silver, she spied berries and took it as summons.

Scrumptious!

Sent from Heaven

wafting, steaming, hovering, three kettles. With raise of each cap and dip of golden spoon, she dreamed

then tasted.

Delicious.

Too hot

was the first pot with girth that matched her craving, while the second, just slightly smaller, was too cold.

But the tiny pot, fired with whimsy, held promise.

Perfect.

Appetites satisfied

invite contemplation and to her delight, Locks found that her answer was held in cushions, fastened, puckered, brocade, and each piece with its ornament stood in grand fashion.

Enchanting.

The King’s chair

grand in stature revealed imposture. It was too hard. The Queen’s chair, however, more fitting her style,

implored to conceal her. It was too soft. But one chair, the petite, whispered dew-spot petals and morning spring…Until it broke.

Displeasure.

Collecting her pride,

but ready to leave not, interest found her atop a spiral. Still knowing her crime, but blaming those who failed to latch,she explored nevertheless.

Arrogance.

She entered

a chamber of sleep, which held in it, beds: one large, knotty pine, one medium, with canopy, and one small,

embossed and engraved.

Opulence.

The largest

ruffled in twill and still telling story, was so giant she almost not dare.

It was too hard.

Displeasure.

The second,

a cot in ribbon and fluff, proved dangerous. It was too soft.

Distress.

But the cradle,

delicate, cordial and fitted to her stature,

embraced her and soon she fell into sleep.

Peace.

Like dreams

that make wonder Locks slipped from reality, and imagined faint voices were those of servants to report for duty.

Delusion.

And when the Bears’ three,

spied signs of intrusion, doors open, dishes washed, chairs broken, they crept upstairs where they found

quilts tussled, pillows tossed, and the golden locks girl asleep.

Shock.

Locks

still in dream stirred, and yet in knowing envisioned a mutinous set by those whose purpose was to wait upon her.

Fantasy.

But like a sweet dream

that twists into nightmare, hers grew into reality. And now with yawn and stretch and circle of wrists her eyes, cerulean, revealed themselves to those that crouched around her.

Fear.

And the Bears’

those three, insulted by intrusion, lay bare their teeth, quiver of lips, and wide stone eyes.

Horror.

Claws,

gigantic, huge, and spongy, nudged toward her, nearing her condition with implication of harm.

Warning.

And then Locks

in subconscious action, leapt from broken slumber not even feeling the clutch of curls pulled from her head.

Fortunate.

With sunsets behind her,

and many moons ahead, she stood before it grand, majestic, like a story told, open just a sliver, and she knocked.

Contrition…

SOMETHING GOOD

2010-08-08T09:35:00.000-07:00

Yesterday,
I caught my son in prayer,
perhaps giving thanks for the meal he was about to partake in.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Excerpt: RIDING A BUS IN MEXICO

2010-05-29T21:02:00.000-07:00

“Now see, amor, with patience we are there.” Or were we? As I listened to Joe in conversation with the cashier, it became apparent that something was wrong. Body language betrayed the woman as she kept shaking her head as she curled her lips inside her mouth. Very concerned I asked Joe what was happening. I couldn’t understand what she was saying, and now with even more confusion, it was difficult to dicipher. Without thinking I left my seat, and coveted post as pillow, but not without noticing how my half sleeping friend timbered in to the lap of my other compadre. I enquired again about our travel plans, when as if by design, a suggestion was offered to me by way of a tug on my braid.

“What you say es Que Pasa? That is what you mean to say... Que Pasa?” Beside me stood a boy about 9 years of age holding a hanger dangling small leather purses and belts. A strap around his neck was latched to a tray that rested against his torso. It was stocked with gum, candy and chips. He looked just like one of those cigarette girls in a 1950’s movie, only his face was smudged and his sweaty clothes were somewhat tattered. His head adorned a glittering blue and gold sombrero, one that any tourist would die for, and he was almost barefoot as his roped sandals were worn and fraid. “You will not be train traveling today. No more tickets, so you ride the bus. I know where lunch is.”

“The bus?” I was about to enquire more, but my attention was diverted away from the boy, as I was pushed a few inches closer to Joe by an irritable crowd still waiting to be told sold-out. He and the cashier continued to exchanged words that I understood little of; however, discontent and exasperation about to flood away from each one's brow, made interpretation easy.

“We had reservations!” Joe said in English eyeing the cashier. I could only guess what he said turning toward my direction because whatever it was, it was all in Spanish. The woman rattled off something more. Joe was obviously distressed but being considerate, he continued to do his best to include me in the conversation as did the boy who was still standing next to me. “The only seats left are for passengers boarding in Hermasio. I offered to pay more, even for regular seats. She keeps saying that first class is filled and they won’t sell anymore seats because they have other passengers to pick up down route.”

“In Hemosillo...” I replied. “We had reservations. Did you tell her that?” Joe, who was clearly exhausted and feathering both hands through his hair, shrugged and nodded a pitiful yes.

“All the people paid the money for da tickets before you husband.” I looked at the kid, tried not to sneer, thanked him, then handed him a couple quarters and actually heard a Beat it Kid! come out of my mouth. But he didn’t leave. “Ah,” he said, “this is good, but where I take you for lunch, we will need more.”

“Why are you making friends?” Joe asked. Before I could defend myself, he had already turned his attention back to the cashier. “Isn’t there anything... I mean...” then corrected his language to continue in Spanish. A quick 9 seconds later in attempt to interpret, he told me everything he knew still using Spanish, then back toward the cashier, “I know you are - then back to me, Spanish, Spanish, Spanish, back to her with English, English, English, but not before he ended with, “Oh Dios mio!” with both hands back in his hair squeezing his head as if trying to remove it.

I couldn’t help myself. I just had to... “Oh my gosh...I’m starring in an episode of the I Love Lucy show. Tell me again, Ricky Ricardo!” I chuckled, but Joe clearly was not amused, turned back toward the stubborn ticket-taker.

“Oh jes! That is me! Ricardo. Mi nombre es Ricardo.” the little boy piped as he lurched for my suitcase. “Lucy, I take care of you and Ricardo, my friends, one of my same name.”

“I’m not Lucy, my name is Peri and he’s Joe. Leave, now.” I said through gritted teeth turning away from the kid for the 75th time.

“Ricardo. Ricardo. I am Ricardo just like you friend,” and then he bowed. I was a sucker. I just had too...

“What friend?” I replied.

“You friend, Lucy-Perita, you, the lady with Ricardo!”

“We’re not friends - I mean - look... Ricardo, we're busy. I’m not going to purchase any more of your lovely items. I am not a customer anymore. Get going now. Shew!” I jestured waving my hand.

“That is right. You was customer, now you my friend.”

Trying to listen to Joe and the clerk, while trying not to listen to the kid, I let down my guard. “Ok.” I said. “I’ll buy that small purse,” I said pointing not to any one in particular, “but then you have to leave. We are busy here.” I started digging through my shoulder bag, around everything I didn't need, but packed anyway, when I found my coin purse, snapped it open and handed the kid a dollar.

“Ah. That one, she is brown so you will need this one.” I practiced patience while the little salesman untangled a turqouise and black change purse, definately something else to die for, thanked him, and then quickly turned my back with another jesture shewing him away.

“But Lucy-Perita, you man,” I heard coming from behind me.

"My friend to you, I am -"

"I know, I know, Ricardo. Ricardo, you must simply go somewhere else now. Not here. Beside, you are losing business."

"Jes! Somewhere else, and that is why I take you to the bus. The bus, he is somewhere else away from the train. I take you there and you will have lunch, and soon you will bus travel to Guadalajara." Who did this kid think he was? A fortune teller? I was about to thump the little guy when Joe turned to me in surrender and defeat.

"So, what are we doing?" I asked softly.

"Yes, Senior, Que Pasa? but I know what to do. I take you to the bus and you will be okay. Your lady, she is hungry."

2010-01-04T08:59:00.000-08:00

A PIECE OF HEAVEN

And I found it. My return to Yuma commenced with conniption and mantra of I can't believe this is happening to me! Through clenched teeth and an occasional whack at my steering wheel, I trudged forward weaving thoughts of temporary, temporary. It was 11:45 p.m. when my brand new jalopy rolled itself onto the driveway. With little pondering of my situation, I was ready to market my plan of short vacation before moving on to greener pastures, especially since the only green pastures in Yuma were man made to feed the world.

As I was readying to leave my stuck-to-my-sticky-back seat, my mother, my grandparents, and my brother, surprisingly rounded the walkway to load into the Cadillac for Bullhead City. Being that it was mid August, the plan of a midnight run came into fruition with the discovery of a smoking air conditioner, and the part needed was still three shipping days away. The trip was hot (and the hot never ended), which furthered my case for getting the heck out of Yuma, again. But I would need a job first... a temporary job... first...

Leaving Bullhead City, was ventured in fashion, as before, departing just before midnight. As the sun broke, I wasted no time looking for temporary work, and I found it. In fact it was a place I visited before, only previously it wasn't a restaurant.

The Garden Cafe is much as it was during the early 1980's. I can readily say that it is one of Yuma's finest and original patio restaurant. Guests are in for a treat as they dine on delicious gourmet breakfast, lunch and desserts, surrounded by lush trees, blooming flowers, and an aviary that is home to generations of doves and cockatiels. While customers dine in the presence of history, one would never guess that the old grounds keeper's home that sits charmingly among ribbon filled trees, now serves as storage for the restaurant.

Nature's Way, as it was called then, became my piece of Heaven in the desert for almost four years. Tips were adequate if not good, but on those rare occasions when too little filled my pocket, the beauty and paradise of what I had privilege to that day, filled a permanent place in my heart.

Don't Drink the Water or You Will Be Back

2010-01-03T09:43:00.000-08:00

The almost native Yuman (of the Arizona type), will often warn those who complain, gripe, or rip to shreds our oasis in the desert, against drinking the water. Why? Because there is something about the water here... maybe... but whatever it is, many who leave find themselves back.

On the surface, Yuma is boring, dry, ugly, and boring. (Did I already say boring?) What many don't realize, and often not until they return (some kicking and screaming the way I did), is that Yuma is filled with amazing secrets. One secret is that of our heritage families like the Redondos', Sanguinettis', and the Gutierrez', who have kept the old flavor of Yuma alive. Oh. Did I say flavor?

Yuma is filled with restaurants and patrons, who have become Mexican food artisans. And anyone, visitor or defector, cannot, I mean cannot, deny no matter how hard they try, that Yuma's Mexican food is superior to all. But it's not just the food, it's the atmosphere. One such restaurant, Mi Ranchito, welcomes customers into richly toned rooms of marigold where portraits of familia grace walls between landscapes of Mexico. The music is mariachi and the food is delicious and plentiful. In contrast to Mi Ranchito, Yuma also seats numerous restaurants where only 'locals' dine and although the motif of said few (actually many), is not as festive, the food is the same... magnifico!

La Casa Gutierrez is an old residence located in 'Old Yuma' on historic Orange Avenue. It is a quaint restaurant with tables and chairs placed in and about the original floor plan. Libations are your choice; you bring your own, but don't forget your corkscrew. Inconvenience? No. Not when you consider that the corking charge is free. La Casa, as Yumans' call it, tried to close once, but mutiny erupted among the townspeople, and thus, we still have our La Casa.

Yuma holds many secrets, and I intend to reveal them all. As far as dining? I apologize to those who have enjoyed the short waits for a table.

New Years Resolution? I've Never Done That...

2010-01-03T09:05:00.001-08:00

But why not give it a try?

As years roll forward, so do the numbers on my scale.

As years move forward, so does the list of "Things I Want To Do" grow longer, while the accomplishments of what I have achieved grows shorter.

As years progress toward more years, I do too, so I am grateful for that.

As years advance, I'm still trying to get to that place in career where I really want to be.

So What's Next?

Me.

Again?

2009-11-01T07:22:00.000-08:00

Another lay-off for teachers? Now... Where did I put that suitcase?

Back to Work

2009-08-23T19:39:00.001-07:00

I'm back at work.

"Acts of Love" by Cassandra Barnes is the perfect poolside read.

2009-07-24T07:58:00.000-07:00

Every summer I compile a list of novels that I intend to read. My standards dictate that at least one be a classic - read before or not, a mystery - romance or not, a ghost story, a biography/autobiography, and finally that one be a self-growth and God centered. I use various locations to add cozy, zing, and contemplation to my reading moments. Such real estate resides nestled on my couch, where the sky is easily visible and the clouds can interject and insert their opinions. Another prime location is the corner chair where a swaying jackoranda can be viewed dancing with purple daisies and blackeyed-susans. My fun-reads, however, take me to my pool where I soak up words and water.

This summer's classic is, "Uncle Tom's Cabin" by Harriet Ward Beecher Stowe. My spirituals consist of Deepak Chopra's "Book of Secrets" and as a reference check, the Bible. My fun read by the pool, however, is one that I am just beginning called, "Acts of Love" by Cassandra Barnes.

Cassandra Barnes tells a story about a woman who lives in a quaint little town, where she owns and operates a small business called Earth Scents. Earth Scents is a cozy shop that holds herbs, candles, oils, and fragrances meant to promote well-being and healing. One can almost sense being surrounded by the scent of white birch, as sun streams through crystals that dangle in the window. And all the while, soft meanderings of metaphysical music drifts in the background.

The "Spice Cats," Cinnamon and Nutmeg, spark playfulness in an atmosphere that finds itself suddenly surrounded by the mystery of a double murder that Amanda's love interest (perhaps), is lead investigator. I'm only on chapter seven, but I detect some conflict between the 'want to be, maybe not want to be lovers. Yazz has his suspects, but Amanda isn't so sure. By any means, I'm curious about the murders, Amanda's secret surrounding her long lost son, and I love her abode. This story is the perfect poolside or fireplace read. You pick the season, but in the meantime, I'll keep reading!

2009-07-23T15:45:00.000-07:00

SEE IT

Going Within, Peace in Sight
White an' Foamy Waves of Delight
The Sun That Fell, The Wind Propels
Birds in Song, Eternal Life We Long

Granting Inside Whispers of Devine
Sound Consciousness
Living Life

Shadows Fall, A Ray of Light
In Mourning Time, Comes the Sign
Within the Silence, Of All the Sounds
There is Peace and Man Without Their Frowns
Calm in Harmony, Nature at Dawn
Man an' Ocean, God is One

Creation Creator, Starlight Star
Message Sublime, Moving On In Time
Deep is Weeping, Sand in Heart
Weight of Struggles, Past Alert

Awakening Sunset Beneath it Arises
To Another Land
Good Morning Man, Good Evening Shadows
Time to Sleep, No More Sorrows

Becoming Inside, Whispers of The Devine
Sound Consciousness
Living Life

by Cloyce E. Hilsinger lll
Alaska 12/10/1994

Wishes...

2009-07-05T13:19:00.000-07:00

Cassandra Barnes at Through A Window Brightly, proposes an interesting question. If you could make a wish come true, what would it be? Her idea peeked when over hearing a conversation between two women who revealed that great quantities of money would be theirs'. I had that wish once, until it came true.

My wish of great wealth was to find thrown away money alongside the highway, or stuffed under a mound of sand somewhere in the desert. Of course my justification for keeping the loot, would be that it was dirty money (found by me), meant for the unthinkable; let's say for the purchase of drugs, or life savings demanded by human smugglers. If found (by me), filthy money would suddenly transform itself into goodness and love: I would share by sending great quantities to various charities. I would gift to family, and of course, my husband and I would enjoy frequent luxury vacations during custom renovations to our seasonal homes.

As it happened, one day during a ride through the desert, my husband waved me over to where he had parked his ATV. I approached slowly as he was signaling me like an approaching airliner to its dock. "What's the deal?" I asked. Then I saw the gleaming white plastic coated potato sack. It sent chills up my spine. Not good chills; violent dark murdering chills. There we were on a lonely road, next to the All American Canal. We were in complete isolation staring at large meticulously placed bags, of which its contents was obvious.

With further investigation of shape, weight and number of packages, and with a tree branch placed strategically atop the bags fold, the evidence could not be ignored. A careful line of dusted footprints trying to be concealed, led away to a mesquite tree, where perhaps the deliverers of said contents waited.

We knew it; we were looking at perhaps hundreds of thousands of dollars in money, drugs, or perhaps, both. Our whispered discussion was not about how my wishes had just come true, but rather about how to leave and not draw attention to ourselves. No doubt, the unscrupulous could be watching for a 'pick up' of the soon to be evil fortune. We decided to play dumb, and attempt our departure as if we were discussing the beauty of the canal as we slowly launched away on our ATVs. Once out of the desert and into population, we reported our find. There guess was, that we called it as it was.

Now I know what "Be careful what you wish for" means.

An Excerpt

2009-06-23T14:47:00.000-07:00

LEARNING SPANISH THE HARD WAY
BY ROBIN CHRISTENSEN

CHAPTER UNO

My patience resigned. It was hot. I was sticky. Every moment sandwiched between malodorous men the size of redwood trees, fetched more query within me; Was this really the beginning of a dream vacation come true? Squeezed between the two chaps, my mind argued, lauding ideas of how to alleviate my current situation. Vacating my seat would mean standing for who knows how long. However, motivation to do so increased, once again, by one gent who kept trying to cozy-up on my shoulder.

Considering the circumstances, my usually kind soul refused him my gift of comfort, even for a minute or two. My lack of generosity swelled with every whistle and snort; with every smack of his lips. His head bobbed and weaved. I feared for the worse, but lucky for me, his subconscious mind fought gravity that pulled on his lower jaw. I was saved, yet again, from the impending doom that could have found its way down my sleeve. Every so often, repose visited, but only momentarily because the third Act was readying to play. Motivation to surrender my seat intensified still, as his symphony worsened with every dither of his head. His folly persisted "Yam-yam, uh-un-uh, yam-yam". Smack, bob, weave. It was just impossible to be friendly!

My left brain continued its interrogation of the right, as the unimaginable chanced right before my eyes. Only seconds after the ticket window opened, Joe, to our horror, was pushed and shoved by "49" people who had the audacity to cut in front of him. If not for the heat and my friend now leaning his reeking self against me, I could have stood in protest citing the unnatural custom of cutting in line. And if the torture of Joe's battle to defend his space wasn't enough salt festering in my already bleeding wound, the cashier who nonchalantly issued tickets to the mob of 'cutters' really frosted my cake!

So What Happend to My Plan?

2009-06-17T16:24:00.001-07:00

A year ago last March, I had an itch to change my surroundings and the direction of my career. After 12 years on campus, 9 of those teaching English, I decided to quit, kind of... My real dream is to write and publish, but being realistic, I knew I would have to teach a bit longer. Perhaps two more years at most.

The Art position I applied for prior to teaching English, was not going to vacate even though that teacher is horrifically unhappy. I decided that teaching at a new school and district was in my best interest. Teaching art was still an option, so 3 months later, I began my search. I let the high school district know my intentions, but there was an obstacle. Anymore, talent, comprehension and passion of subject matter, interest, and teaching credentials, do not qualify one to teach in that given area, so the week before school began, this seasoned educator was emergency certified to teach biology. (The art positions I so coveted, were literally filled by others' unqualified, as I waited on the phone while excited secretaries wrote me in for interview.)

Biology was OK. I loved reviewing (I hold over 30 units in Science) and teaching Biology the English way, but alas, March came once more, and this time, I was given my walking papers! Was the Universe listening? During the school year I earned my credentials to teach Art, but with our economy and budget cuts, teaching art may not be in my future. But again I have to wonder...was the Universe listening? Yes!

With that, I set my plan in motion... well almost. You see, my plan was to exercise, write, and swim, every day. That is how I planned to build my writing career this summer. However, my plans have been completely thrown to the wind, or should I say the breeze and clouds? I love clouds. Clouds are my favorite weather thing, but being a desert girl, it is impossible to even think about submerging my pinkie tow into a pool, when the thermometer has yet to read above 97 degrees! My nature dictates that I don't even take the plunge, until the water reaches a cool 86, which requires 4 days of 102 degrees (or above) consecutively.

So my plan? I'm writing...

"Matt Cat holds tight to his helmet and obeys all street and sidewalk signs."

2009-06-11T16:33:00.001-07:00

MATT CAT SKATEBOARD
is a story about competition, friendship, and sharing. Matt Cat is on his way to the store when he encounters his
friend, Rod Dog, who is on his way to the store. Both are in pursuit of their favorite treat, "People Shaped Cookies, Chocolate and Vanilla Bean, both!"

STILL A WRITER, STILL NOT READ

2009-05-31T22:04:00.000-07:00

I was just about to give up on my goal and aspiration of publishing my novels and Children's books, when I happened across a piece of an interview where Toni Morrison, claimed that once she quit her full time job to become a full time writer, she felt real fear for the first time in her working career. In so many words, she said that making the commitment was not what frightened her, but all the free time now available to her; which meant that she had to commit.

I would like to understand that fear. In fact, I WANT TO FEEL THAT FEAR!! Like so many unpublished authors, I have the works in my mind, laptop, other computer, sketch book, notebook, filing cabinet, on scraps of paper jumbled and crumpled at the bottom of my purse, inside one of my many journals, the ash tray in my car... you get my drift. And like so many writers, I have a whole file (to be nice, let's just call it a scrap book) of rejection letters - some handwritten. In the publishing world, hand written rejections are good. You don't get published, but they are good. (Pahleeezzz.)

Several nights ago while cleaning out a closet, I ran across an old suitcase I knew was full of photos. Not able to resist, I began to thumb through. As I relived old moments, I saw an envelope with the words - "Report: What I Want and Expect to do When I Grow Up." As I unfolded the paper, another fell away from it and floated to the floor in 2 pieces. It was a poem about grapes that I had written in the 5th grade.

Grapes are Wild
Green and Purple
Some People Eat Them
My Grandpa Drinks Them
They Grow on Vines
In France
Where People Like to Dance

(My grandfather really did tell me that he liked to drink his grapes. I was thinking Welch's - looking back, I am positive that he was thinking Cold Duck.) After I chuckled a bit, and noticed all 'caps' were correct for poetry (part of the lesson), I focused again on what was left in my hand. This time it was an actual report written during my Sophomore year in high school.

The main content was about me becoming a writer or a nurse. As I read, it was clear to me that writing was what I wanted to do most. But where is the time? I didn't become a nurse, but somewhere along the line, I did become a teacher, so I write when I can, which is mostly during the summer and some weekends, but that is OK. I am back on track again, and hopefully someday, the fear that crept over Toni will visit me.

Excerpt from "Chasing the Son" by Robin Euleta Hilsinger-Christensen

2009-05-29T14:36:00.000-07:00

Barbara collapsed on the burgundy chaise, shadowed under lattice, weaved with lavender snail vine . As each quash of golden mulberry pealed away from her flip-flops, a dusty scent of marigold, neon yellow, orange, and cranberry, wafted through her, and drew her apprehensions toward the China Berry. From its October rainbow wreath, finger twists of hazelnut trunks, reached under the umbrella of beige and crimson platelets, that rattled like streams of water falling against pebbles. When had it time to grow? she wondered. And just like her child, when had he time to grow? but unlike her child, this sapling just moments ago, could not topple away into danger. Unless, of course, she chopped it down. Had she chopped him down?

Meandering flagstone paths burrowed under cinnamon patches of bear grass, called Barbara’s mind... no her heart, to crouch under the thick sienna canopy of Japanese maple, where her favorite bench, stone and beveled, lay in wait. How did this sanctuary even exist? Why wasn’t it dead like so many others? Had they planned it this way? Or was it just Michael’s green thumb? She couldn’t remember, but sitting there numb, she wondered how it was that God could gift her with such magical color, of sweet scent, of perfect solace?
Fixed and surrounded by one exquisite creation after another, her attention pressed against the letter tucked away in her pocket: “I designed it for you, Mom, because I knew that someday you would need a place to pray.”

Me? Are You Sure?

2009-05-23T16:26:00.000-07:00

I learned Thursday, that I am on a list to work this summer on committee to revise and build upon the biology curriculum that my colleagues and I just finished teaching. So how is it that I am not highly qualified to teach biology, but my proficiency level in said area, is enough to sit on committee to build the curriculum, which other teachers will teach?

As my grandmother would have said, "What a hoot!"

College... So Why Did I Earn My Degree?

2009-04-10T11:40:00.000-07:00

I wanted a change. Teaching 8th grade Language Arts was holding me hostage. On a typical day, I instructed, refined lessons before I taught, as I taught and after I taught. I read, edited, suggested, corrected, assigned rewrites, monitored, reviewed, and finally, adjusted future plans for instruction based on student need and improvement. In planning, I employed my favorite strategies utilizing multiple intelligences, forcing my students' to use multiple portions of their brain at every possible moment. I supervised, engaged, I maximized instruction so that learning was mandatory. No one, especially 8th graders, could escape my wrath. Nor could I escape theirs'.

Students' learned to write, and several each year, actually worked on their own, creating master pieces in pieces... pieces they wanted me to critique, in addition to the work load I already held. This action taken by a student, is the highest complement, the highest award, a teacher can ever receive. So what am I complaining about? It was my schedule. You see after everything, there was still more... meetings, usually three a week, student council (which I loved and miss), fundraisers, newspaper recognitions, hospitality, parties to plan and attend so that new teachers would become old teachers, etc..., etc...

My estimation is that most teachers work two extra days a week. English teachers probably double that. I was ready for a change, so in order to give myself the gift of more time, I changed jobs. Now I teach biology to freshman students. I don't hold a degree in Biology, but I do have 26 hours in science, 7 hours in nurse's training, and 22 hours in math. In addition, this is my 13th year as a teacher, not including substitute teaching time. To boot, now I have one years experience of 'on the job training' in bio, yet that is not enough to be labeled "Highly Qualified". That's OK with me. What isn't OK with me, is that a person holding a degree in Biology can teach biology and not hold a teaching credential, and yet, will be considered for a job in that field before I am.

I understand the concept behind this policy. After all, we do want teachers to be competent in the area in which they are teaching; however, what I don't understand, is why did I go to college to become a teacher? Why not get my degree in English, toodle around in my office, publish some work, and then pop myself into a classroom someday? Perhaps it may have been more fun that way.

As a teacher, I have learned through my career, through simple observation, through collaboration with my peers, and through debates during happy hour, that teaching is truly an art. I have always been an advocate for teachers no matter how they find themselves in the classroom. Teachers are people who have the ability to inspire students to not only learn, but to become life long learners. And for those who struggle, teachers help bring understand as to why someone is in a classroom, and why participating will serve as beneficial.

Today we have a situation in education, where teachers are being booted because they lack a certain credential, while those that don't hold a teaching certificate from an accredited university, are given leeway, and first priority in employment.

Teachers like me are being punished because some tenured teachers are, and always have been, ineffective. We all know who they are. They are people who enter the classroom, certificated or not, allow foul language to fly, allow regular naps, look the other way when conversations employ verbiage about last nights date (perhaps even on the cell phone), I could go on... Many of these people have the audacity to admit that they are only in teaching for the time off and the paycheck. The paycheck? They are stupid people. Or maybe not... they still have a job.

Any how, enough of the negative or perhaps, just interesting observations. A door has been opened for me. Now it is time to step through and accept the gifts that are destined to come my way. I'm actually curious and looking forward to what lay ahead. Hm...

Job Hunting

2008-11-14T20:01:00.000-08:00

My husband is a retired teacher who is looking for a job. His applications are impressive with his credentials that include a Masters Degree in Industrial Arts and another in Administration. That's in addition to teaching degree, of course. What's the problem? He's over qualified.

Attack the Teachers! Attack the Teachers!

2008-10-30T15:56:00.000-07:00

Apparently a new law is in legislature to update the current No Child Left Behind Act to include holding not only schools accountable for the education of our children, but individual teachers as well. This scares me. Today Freshman took a practice test preparing them for next year's AIMS test (Arizona Instrument to Measure Standards test).

Ordinarily, my students have always taken this test seriously, but that was when I taught the eighth grade. I always explained to them that the AIMS would determine what courses they would be placed in at high school. As expected, they took their test seriously.

Now I teach Freshman. My classes and students have been a joy and the experience working at the high school level has been refreshing until today. You see, today my students participated in a practice test and many did not take it seriously. I heard more often than not that "it didn't count anyway" when inquiring quietly why a test that should take at least 30 minutes was finished in five. More and more I heard, "I don't care" or "I don't need this to graduate." Soon whispered conversations were taking place between students during testing. Once again I reminded, privately, that although this test was only practice, that perhaps it would mean something to someone wanting to grant a college scholarship someday.

When the day was finished, I could not help but notice how many tests were not finished. Now I wonder... when this law passes, will my job be in jeopardy?

Uncle Sam, Remember Me? I Don't Need Your Help!

2008-10-25T10:03:00.000-07:00

This morning at almost the crack of dawn, I roamed through my home to open windows to allow scents of desert flowers to permeate the indoors. As usual, the sky was gorgeous with its twirls of pinks and golds, and to add splender to the moment, I poured myself a scrumptous glass of iced green tea. The backyard next to my lovebirds, already perched in their morning places, would be the perfect start to my Saturday.

Walking to the back door, I talked myself into a short detour to catch a glimpse of what the world was doing. With a click of the switch, CNN came into view. The same droll of whining seemed to be the morning fest, so I flipped to FOX. For a moment things were interesting with the poll counts and knocks against a fabulous woman running for Vice President, until another woman began to spew poison about "how the American people want help from their government." Instantly, I heard my grandfather's "Huh?" fly from my mouth as I choked on my tea.

Since when do the American people want help from their government? Have we lost ourselves that much that we are looking to the White House to bail us out again and again? Many might answer yes, but look closely. Just weeks ago, members of Congress were inundated with voice mails, e-mails, faxes, letters, and phone calls, expressing OVERWHELMINGLY (media, biased or not, report 86 to 90%) that a 'bailout' was not the answer nor was it wanted. But what happened? Our Republican President and Democratic Congress signed into legislation to "help the American people" with a bailout package of over 700 billion borrowed dollars!

May I speak for the masses? I CAN HELP MYSELF! So many of US have worked diligently building our lives and futures. We have saved, we have invested, we've put away our dollars for a rainy day only to see much of it wash away recently, and still, we say, "No Bailout!" Congress, however, keeps weeping that we must save Wall Street in order to save the Middle Class - the backbone of our nation. Is the middle class crying? Maybe a bit, but we are the grownups in this mess.

Those we entrusted with our intentions refuse to listen so much so, that as we point out the obvious, they refuse to whipe their snotty noses, bemoaning tidbits of what the American people need. Is this the legacy we wanted to leave future generations? Is this what we want to do with the gifts and hard work of our grandparents? Let's remember who we are. Our leaders are intruding. It's time to stop them. They know that as we grow weary of their ways, we will do just that. I may have chocked on my tea this morning, but I think it's time to toss the whole lot of it back into the harbor. Let's act now. I say let's raise up our arms and vote them away.

Just Wondering Why My Posts Get Mixed Up

2008-10-24T17:09:00.000-07:00

I write many drafts before I publish, mostly because I don't have time to devote to blogging during one sitting; I piece it together as time permits. My schedule is amazing. Like most, I have a full and a half time job. I teach Biology now, so I'm learning the curriculum only weeks ahead of my students. This presents challenges and surprises.

Every day is a challenge - will I present the lesson with clarity, precision, professionalism? or will I blow it and show everyone what a brain-klutz I am? Most days my lessons are delivered well (even though I'm shaking in my Burkenstocks), and in reflection, my surprise moments are that I am able to leave work knowing that my students' time was well spent. Other days, however, I wonder why I am there. What made me believe that my artsy-fluffy-whimsy-whatever-self, could pull off fact? I want to discuss life deeper than cells and elements. I want to assign pages of, "So, If All Life Evolved From a Single Cell, Where Did the First Cell Come From?" or perhaps, "If Horton Heard a Who, Is It Possible That You Could Hear a How?"

The Language Arts still flows mightily in my veins. So What's Next? "Matt Cat Skateboard" - that's what's next.

Wow! I'm Finally A Real Teacher

2008-08-14T17:13:00.000-07:00

After 13 years in the classroom, I have finally arrived to "teacherhood." What do I mean? I'm finally a real teacher - unqualified according to the infamous NCLB (No Child Left Behind act), but a real teacher. Why? Because I am participating for the first time at a school where teachers can teach; a school that truly strives to create an atmosphere of learning for all students through REAL expectation; a school that recognizes that everything that goes wrong is not the teachers' fault; a school that expects students to take responsibility for their own actions, good or bad.

My new job expects me to educate "to the masses" not cater to the individual who refuses to learn, and whose goal it is to disrupt the classroom. When that happens, those students are educated somewhere else; somewhere that suits their individual needs whatever they are, and the overall results are positive. Students removed are still educated. They just are not allowed to disrupt others' trying and wanting to learn.

The results are telling. My new school's drop-out rate is 1.3%. Compare that to our national average. As a 'newbee' I know why. Discipline and positive expectation that you (the student) will learn and behave as one is suppose to in a learning environment, works! But you know what impresses me most? My students. They know that they are valued and expected to do their very best and they thrive. They understand that school is the most important place for them to be every day.

I know that teachers are not suppose to say, "When I was in school" or "When we were in school..." but it is true. We were expected to learn. While in class, we read, we wrote, we asked questions when we needed clarification. We sang, we produced plays, and we knew we were where we were suppose to be. No mixed messages. We added and subtracted variables and integers and we learned about our country. Some days I feel as if I stepped off into the twilight zone. Rod Serling? Where are you?

We need more schools where students feel welcome. We need more schools that encourage positive behavior where students aren't 'dissed' for turning in homework or completing work that is organized and consistent with teaching standards. And we need schools that aren't afraid to recite the Pledge of Allegiance, with pride, or at least in loud voices. After so many years, I am encouraged again by the customers that I serve each day. Amazing.

Tagged Again Before I Tagged

2008-07-20T11:19:00.000-07:00

My sister tagged me again supporting her reasons that I don't blog enough. She's correct. I am a writer who is seeking publication in magazines, periodicals, children's picture books, and novels. I write. When I read the criteria for this particular "Tag" I laughed because we do share little incidentals in common. So here it goes.

1. I love shopping in office supply stores so much that I have collections of all sorts of unusual office supplies. Each carries with it its own code of importance. For instance, purple is about notes, turquoise are projects in the works, and blue is immediate. The footprint paper clips are clipped to student work that shows exceptional practice. Everybody wants a blue foot paper clip.

2. I have a bad habit of touching things when I'm not suppose to. For instance: I love to touch anything with texture, and unlike my sister, I don't mind gooey things like paint or glue, both are useful tools to create whatever.

3. I have dyslexia, and unlike my sister and brother, mine was realized by my 1st grade teacher who designed a curriculum that was forwarded to all my teachers. It wasn't a big deal (except when I had to sit behind the green chalkboard and write letters in my clay or shape clay like numbers, instead of building like everyone else). 'Back in the day' all learning disabilities meant that you had more homework. I remember how "mean" my teacher was. "You will always have to work harder, Robin HilsinGER (she always accented the 'ger' boldly) when you read and write. You must build the roads in your brain!" she'd say. She also told me I was smart, but not in a nice tone of voice. In college I was sent by an instructor to a testing center. As I answered questions, I shared with the instructor that his test procedure reminded me very much of primary school. That's when I heard the familiar term, Dyslexia. Oh well, I have found many a great place turning in the wrong direction. Oh! and thank you, Mrs. Yheguchie.

4. I love hot tea as well as iced. I make a gallon of sun tea at least 3 times a week. I mix flavors, but always with a base of green. Most evenings, even during the summer (last night at 10:00 it was 91 degrees), I sip on a cup of hot tea. Right now in fact, I have a cup simmering beside me. (It's 12:10 p.m., 102, and very cloudy so it's cozy.)

5. I love learning, so I know about a lot of things that hold no importance for me or anyone else.

6. My home is eclectic and sectioned as such - (oh my gosh... thunder and rain... it's actually happening). My living room is zen - calm blue, soft green, plants, etc... The great room is old southwest/Indian (native American) with coppers, burgandy, tan-taupe, but not cowboyish - I'm trying to add some splash of elegance. My kitchen is maybe contemporary with some kind of glass art thing going on. The guest room is Victorian, our office, art deco, our room takes on an Italian steel, and the back yard is split between English garden and tropical in the works.

So there you have it. Six more things random and not so important about me.

Eek! I've Been Tagged

2008-07-01T12:49:00.000-07:00

My sister called me as my husband and I (along with a100 others) were waiting to exit our plane that just landed in Denver. When I answered, she asked what I was doing. After we laughed a bit, as we are "techno immigrants", she said, "You've been tagged!" So here's the deal. I am suppose to list the six most unimportant things about me, then share with others' who will link back to me. (Like a good American, I will attempt this assignment before I ask for any clarification of instructions.)

1. I use to be a natural blond when blonds had more fun.

2. After 10 months, I still have different colored paint blotches on my kitchen wall because I
can't decide what color I like best.

3. I live in a 'clone-home' in a 'clone-neighborhood; something I swore I would never do.

4. I read for pleasure during the summertime only. Right now I have 10 Oprah's, six Phoenix
Magazines, 3 novel, 3 non-fictions, and I will have read them all by August 1st.

5. My favorite activity during the summer is to swim. It's great exercise and it gives me the
illusion that 114 degrees is really 82.

6. I'm a writer who belongs to a not so exclusive club: I have yet to be published.

So there you have it. Six Not So Important Things About Me. Now let me see...

Another Writer Once Not Read

2008-06-18T21:15:00.000-07:00

I was just about to give up on my goal and aspiration of publishing my novels and Children's books, when I happened across a piece of an interview where Toni Morrison, claimed that once she quit her full time job to become a full time writer, she felt real fear for the first time in her working career. In so many words, she said that making the commitment was not what frightened her, but all the free time now available to her; which meant that she had to commit.

I would like to understand that fear. In fact, I WANT TO FEEL THAT FEAR!! Like so many unpublished authors, I have the works in my mind, laptop, other computer, sketch book, notebook, filing cabinet, on scraps of paper jumbled up at the bottom of my purse, inside one of my many journals, the ash tray in my car... you get my drift. And like so many writers, I have a whole file (to be nice, let's just call it a scrap book) of rejection letters - some handwritten. In the publishing world, hand written rejections are good. You don't get published, but they are good. (Pahleeezzz.)

Several nights ago while cleaning out a closet, I ran across an old suitcase I knew was full of photos. Not able to resist, I began to thumb through. As I relived old moments, I saw an envelope with the words - "Report: What I Want and Expect to do When I Grow Up." As I unfolded the paper, another fell away from it and floated to the floor in 2 pieces. It was a poem about grapes that I had written in the 5th grade.

Grapes are Wild
Green and Purple
Some People Eat Them
My Grandpa Drinks Them
They Grow on Vines
In France
Where People Like to Dance

(My grandfather really did tell me that he liked to drink them. I was thinking Welch's - looking back, I am positive that he was thinking Cold Duck.) After I chuckled a bit, and noticed all 'caps' were correct for poetry (part of the lesson), I focused again on what was left in my hand. This time it was an actual report written during my Sophomore year in high school.

The main content was about me becoming a writer or a nurse. As I read, it was clear to me that writing was what I wanted to do most. But where is the time? I didn't become a nurse, but somewhere along the line, I did become a teacher, so I write when I can, which is mostly during the summer and some weekends, but that is OK. I am back on track again, and hopefully someday, the fear that crept over Toni will visit me.

Not Qualified To Do What?

2008-06-09T12:31:00.000-07:00

June 6, 2008 I officially resigned from my position as an 8th grade Language Arts teacher. By 7:00 p.m. that very same day, I had two job offers - one at another school within the district I had just resigned from, and the other from the high school district, of which I'm interested in working.

I was thrilled that I was about to be offered a job just one day into my summer vacation, but unfortunately, the call was to thank me for applying. My application was up for consideration, but according to my records, I am not qualified to teach what I have been teaching for the past 9 years.

No wonder we have problems with our educational system in this country. It's because of me, and people like me, who are in the classroom teaching subjects we are not qualified to teach! Never mind that I have a degree in Elementary Education, an Endorsement at the middle school level, and that I am secondary certified to teach grades 9 - 12, and that I graduated Cum Laude. And never mind that my students' writing scores were the highest in the school, and two particular years that I know of (because I saw the statistics), my writing scores outscored many in the district.

I worked diligently creating ways (that's called research) to engage my students in learning, and to develop a love for reading and writing, and for the most part, I was successful. Most of my students actually liked English for a change, and it was rare to see a student not increase at least one years growth. With Writing Workshops, Shakespearian plays, retelling of novels in rhyme, and just silent reading to sounds of Mozart, Beethoven, and Mancini, my students excelled. I've been visited by former students throughout the years, who specifically came by to thank me. (Goosebumps...) Two of those students are currently enrolled at University seeking their Masters in English. Another former student is studying drama because of her participation in one of my theater units. Several are seeking Teaching degrees. (I hope they do better than I've done.) Just the other day, June 6, 2008, right after 8th grade promotion, a young woman walked up to me and asked if I remembered her. I told her the usual, which is the truth. I remembered her face and that she sat in the second row, second seat, 2002. She smiled and said, "Oh my gosh. It's stuff like that that makes you my favorite teacher." I thanked her for the compliment and asked what she was doing with her life. She is enrolled at San Diego State University studying oceanography. "I learned so much during that Exploratory Research thing that you had us do, and I never forgot that. I wanted to learn more." She smiled, thanked me, introduced me to her whole family, who was there to watch her little brother (my student) promote to high school, said thanks again, and then let me go.

My students validate who I am as a teacher. Not some politician who's not visited a classroom since 1970.

Uhm... I did it.

2008-05-23T19:18:00.000-07:00

Nineteen Ninety-seven was an exciting year; I earned a college degree in what should be the most important degree one can earn in our country. I was thrilled! I couldn't wait to make a positive difference in my community and touch the lives of young people, especially those on the edge of trouble. (My interest here was (and is) genuine: I know something about children on the edge, or better said, at risk.) I knew with everything in my soul that I could make a difference where others' had failed. So what did I do? I put my degree to work and I became a teacher.

Even with all the anticipation of what was coming, I didn't realize that I was about to embark on the most life changing, uplifting, exciting, energetic, loving, discovering, laughing, engaging, challenging, rewarding, and most positive experience ever. And I didn't know it, but I was about to embark on the most life changing, messed up, mixed up, disorganized, and with too many chiefs who want to control, and with too many chiefs who fear to control. I didn't know it, but I was joining a statewide organization that constantly changes the system so readily, that rarely is an idea practiced for more than a year at a time. I didn't know it but this organization rarely listens to teachers currently working in classrooms, who may hold a better incite as to our educational down fall... experience ever. Yep. That's education. So what did I do yesterday? I resigned. And you know what? Eleven years experience at the middle school level doesn't account for much.

You see, in recent years there is something called, "Highly Qualified." Now that seems to make sense. After all, who wouldn't want teachers to be highly qualified in their subject area? However, being Highly Qualified, means that you are only qualified to teach according to what your college degree and transcripts reveal. But you know what? Just because your major was in World History, doesn't mean that a teacher could not teach proficiently, American History. In other words, taking certain courses does not mean that you are highly qualified to teach that particular subject.

Let me explain. At first glance (well not at first glance... my first semester was about the art of suntanning at the river), one can easily see that most of my credits are in the sciences; Basic Chemistry, Chemistry/Math for the Health Sciences, Anatomy, Physiology, a horrendous semester of Nursing, Psychology 1 and 2, Sociology... You get my drift. Now according to the HQ guidelines, I am Highly Qualified to teach chemistry or something within that genre. Ha! Did you hear me? I said, Ha! That is because I am not qualified to teach chemistry. Although I found those topics fascinating, and while I absolutely loved the labs, I know who I am, and I am not, I repeat, I am not Highly Qualified to teach chemistry or biology. Could I become qualified? Of course... with time and study. Do I have the kajing to spend the hours it takes to become highly qualified? Maybe. But I do have the time? And if I did, where would I find that time? After work? It's possible. But the best place to learn how to teach is in the classroom while one teaches.

Oh gasp! but it's true. With a simple looksy-loo of the brain while teaching, the brain lights up all over the place. In other words, the best way to learn is to learn while you teach. So could I learn while I teach? I'm a professional. I can learn and teach even while standing on one foot. Why? Mostly years of practice.

Teaching was my second career. My first was in various areas of sales and marketing. After several years of substitute teaching, more years of college, I was ready. Or was I? Due to my sales experience, my first years of teaching was easier than most, but I still had plenty to learn. I started out in a In-school suspension program, of which I designed. (I'm saddened to say that once I left for greener pastures, my program, my curriculum, was ripped to shreds, and honestly? by one teacher that set out to do so. Absolutely horrendous!)

Once I decided to teach in a regular classroom, I studied my college transcripts and found that most of my courses (outside of basic science classes) were writing intensive. I really enjoyed those classes and skated through with all A's, so it made since to approach my principal with a language arts position in mind. (I really wanted Art, but that was not available.) Now keep in mind, that this conversation took place long before HQ. Happily, the following year, and many years since then, I was in place to teach Literature and Reading. Was I good at my job? Damn Straight! And was I Highly Qualified? According to my college transcripts, that would be a firm, Nope!

So What's Next? I don't know... I've never resigned before.

OPEN HOUSE, CLOSED HOUSE

2008-05-02T20:07:00.000-07:00

Last week as I thumbed through my date book, I noticed a page I had apparently dogeared some months back; February to be precise. As I lifted the corner, I was met with horror as one of my baby blue foot shaped paper clips, peaked out at me. Now to the average observer, a baby blue foot shaped paper clip, may simply indicate that a page, perhaps, has been marked. But not to me. Clearly, it was a paper clip code! And a baby blue foot shaped paper clip code indicates URGENT!

With trembling hands I smoothed out my calendar to reveal that fated message: Plan and schedule a Parent Night Open House for this month. Oops. In a mad dash I called the other 8th grade leadership teacher, and was met with a calm, "It's really not a big deal. Remember last year and all the work we put into it?" I thought a minute. Yep. I did remember last year, but that was last year. This year we have a whole new group of teachers' fresh out of college. Our students really like them, I thought, so they'll want to at least show off their teachers' to their parents'. They would jump on this thing, I thought.

Busily, the two of us decided on a date. "I'll put out a flier and get it to the kids next week. Let's say Tuesday and Wednesday." I agreed that it was a good plan, but not the only plan. On Monday, prior to Thursday, I began my campaign. I took a count of hands. Possibilities went up here and there. I volunteered fabulous works of intelligences for display. More hands revealed themselves to me. On Tuesday, I asked other teachers what they were going to bring, and I showed them what I would bring. During classes that day, I took another count of hands - "How many will be attending with your parents on Thursday?" Uhm... "How many will maybe attend on Thursday?" "Is anyone planning to attend this Thursday?" Uhm... I wondered if Thursday was a bad day.

I rung up my colleague who answered his phone quite exasperatedly. I hoped he hadn't run across the room to the phone, but I soon learned why he was out of breath. "Wait a minute. I see another one." I just had to ask. Another what? "Another one of those fliers I passed out today. My trash is full of 'um because I keep finding them on the floor and outside on the ground. Shouldn't they be putting 'um in their backpacks?"

So... visions of last year visited my mind once more, and again I told myself that this year wouldn't be like last year, or the year before, or even the year before that. And it wasn't. Instead of 9 parents attending Parent Night, this year we had 3... And two of them are teachers.

So what's next? Send each parent a personal invitation autographed by their own child? Offer a free spaghetti or taco or, a choice between hamburgers and hot dogs sizzling right off the grill dinner? Perhaps a theater production complete with a full string orchestra to go along with their eating pleasure? Or maybe we could add local celebrities to be a part of the show!

We've done it (really!) and it works, but why should teachers have to add another full time job to their already full time and half job? So that the community can get a glimpse of what they are paying for, or for a free dinner show? The following year our school could still feel the cracking of our stiff and hobbled bones, so we settled for dinner and student projects; something student led.

As a result, the number of guests have continued to decline. Dinner has gone by the wayside, but our fabulous chocolate chip cookies with the best punch in town is still served. After all, Open House should not take two months of planning, nor should a teachers' time be dominated by producing an off broadway spectacular, unless of course, she's the drama teacher. I wonder... Could it be that I buried my baby blue foot shaped paper clip under that dogeared page for a reason?

Spring Break

2008-04-05T21:33:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a good day. My brother, Cloyce, is making real progress promoting his music. He has a post on U Tube, which has found its way to a site advertising NBA tickets for sale. Wow! I need to tell him to bill the website that has included his work. Cori, my sister, is our blog queen; her site, (both of them, or should I say all of them) are absolutely beautiful and reminded me that I hadn't visited my own yard in quite sometime.

My yard is very different from my sister's. While hers is dotted with flowers, roses that peak through a white picket fence, climbing vines of wisteria, mine isn't. Her yard is English. Mine is mixed. My "Summer Resort" dedicates itself to where I live: the desert complete with a deep blue oasis surrounded by flagstone (too bad it's fake or should I say, faux?). The far corner is trying to be tropical with its bamboo fence (a cooling trick that can make a 112 degree day seem like a pleasant 104). Our trellis is redwood keeping in sink with the flagstone (still fake) coloring. Hanging baskets of someday overflowing with flowers, surround our fare corner and add a someday magic to our patio.

After leaving 'the resort area' the middle yard is mixed as it contains a motif of tropical plants that bloom most of the year. The hibiscus from March until next November will show off their

glorious explosions of color. Meandering north is our aviary complete with lovebirds, that most likely chirp English. That is because they live in an English garden not quite finished. So returning to yesterday...

I told my husband that I wanted to find some decorating ideas for around the pool. After all, pool season is just around the corner. His suggestion? Call my brother and take the ATVs out to the desert. As I said, it was a good day. My brother and his friend, Nancy, explored mine shafts and mountain tops (OK... tall rocky pointed hills), while my husband and I discussed the flora and fauna that grew flawlessly among remnants of Tumco, an old mining ghost town that saw its last customer about 80 years ago. The desert is truly a jewel, spotted that day with polka dots of white, purple, red, and golden-yellow.

My design ideas? I'll plant a cluster of yellow desert daisies in the front yard. They'll volunteer, and by next year, I'll enjoy 3 to 4 clusters, and quite possibly, a spot or two will be found in my backyard as well... and quite possibly across the street. I hope my neighbors like desert daisies)

The Desert

2008-03-30T11:59:00.001-07:00

I need to clear something up. Many don't realize, but the predominant color inside the southwest deserts of Arizona, is purple. At sunrise, the sculptured mountains that the sun peaks out from behind are purple. If a small cloud cover is trying to make a statement at that wee hour, it is purple. At sunset the shadows cast in and around the crevices of those very same mountains, are light purple, dark purple, violet, lavender or a dark shade of pink-gray, which is really purple.

The ground is speckled lavender, by sand, or by plant. Plant: Lantana, daisy-looking flowers, snap-dragon looking stocks, blooming sage, ice-plant succulents of various sorts with shades of purple, both light and dark (that is correct, ice-plant...), Snail vine, Resurrection vine, Blue Hibiscus, which is really really really purple, and three other blooming purple flowers in my yard that I see all over the desert during late January through late March.

So hopefully, I've cleared that up... I'm not from San Fransisco...

So How Do We Really Know?

2008-02-06T19:22:00.002-08:00

Today a student labeled "Special Ed," and told to me by a specialist that "she is peddling as fast as she can," interpreted a poem perfectly, according to the test analysis in my hand. She did this among her peers, many of them 'Advanced Placement Students.' "It's simple, Mrs. Christensen," she said. "The author wrote the poem in two different directions to represent the choices he's writing about. If you read the poem in its entirety, it's a nice poem about choices. But if you read one column at a time, one choice is good, while the other is bad. Kind of like that Robert Frost guy who traveled many roads." The lesson went on and she continued to decipher the poem , while myself, along with several 'Advanced' scratched our heads, and nodded them in awe.

When class was dismissed, I noticed a folded paper left on the floor. I knew better, but I opened it anyway. As it happened, the 'Spec-ed' was trying to convince her well-bred friend, "that it is wrong to steal perfume and condoms from the store. I can't go shopping with u anymore, but I will be your friend at school." Miss well-bred thought it all right to remain friends, but defended herself writing that her mother preferred that she use condoms, but that since she wouldn't pay for them, she(miss well-bred) just took them from the store, "but always a different store so I don't get cot." The note responded from 'Spec-ed' that well-bred was lying about the mom, and with banter of why you shouldn't, to why I do, and finally ended with the 'Spec-ed' writing, "I lov u, u r my friend my very best friend but I can't be friends with you anymore not even at school, until u stop stealing. Good-buy my friend.

How is it that a child who has little to no support at home, and is labeled deficient in one form or another, develops skills so sophisticated that she can sever a relationship in order to uphold her own principles? Most adults could not do what she did. And what about the young lady; a straight A student with parents who call, write notes concerning homework, check on her grades over the computer, and volunteer to chaperon field trips, be so inconsistent with what is obviously in line with her parents' views?
I contacted our school councilor who read the note. Her comment? "This information is most likely accurate..."

So how do we really know who is spec-ed with emotionally handicapped tendencies? When asked I was told, "All we can do is follow the rubric and rely on the observations of other professionals and do our best." Have we done our best, or does the little wise poet observe the world in such a way that following a rubric to identify her 'deficiency' just doesn't fit? How do we really know?

So What's Next? Do we continue to label people according to rubrics? past failures? And if we do, are we squashing future success and creativity?

It's No Wonder

2008-01-14T16:08:00.000-08:00

Like so many, drive-time, regardless of traffic, has become my think time. It's practically the only place where I find enough peace to reflect on my day. Today my focus was on my new career. You see, I've only been practicing 13 years. Most professionals would consider themselves as seasoned, experienced, or tenured (Oh yeah, teachers get tenure), but in my world of work, I consider myself new because the rules keep changing.

When I entered the classroom, I brought with me experiences from the 'outside world;' experiences I believed our leaders of tomorrow could use. Consequently, my first two years in the classroom were phenomenal. I introduced and taught lessons that convinced my students' of their capabilities. One miracle I brought into fruition for many of my students who could careless about it, was a love for reading. How did I do it? I bargained with them: If they read what I assigned on Wednesday's, they could read whatever they wanted on Friday's. By means of accountability, my students were responsible for writing a perfect summary of what they read, but not on Friday's. As part of the bargain, they had to 'sell' their story to the class by presenting a "fun"sales pitch, which may have included elements of plot or compare and contrasts of possible view points by the author and reader, for example. Not surprisingly, I expected reading scores to increase, but as an added bonus, our writing scores began to show equal promise. I was proud of my students, and their obvious successes; I knew what I proved in my former world would work inside of my new career: simply put; by applying principles of real life into the classroom, learning became relevant.

Prior to my 'teacher life,' I heard from those already there, that society clearly blamed educators for the continual down swirl of student achievement. I listened politely as my mind sing-songed, boo-hoo-poor-baby, knowing full well that they could be doing their jobs better. After all, as a parent, I had to teach my child to read and write - something educators were suppose to do. Not until I became an educator did I realize that as a parent, I did what I was suppose to do; teach my child to read and write. I also learned something else. Teachers are not to blame for all our country's ills, but they are to blame when it comes to the frenzy of what to do next for our kids.

I remember when it happened. A parade of people, administrators mostly, came tromping into my classroom to observe my methods. Concise language skills were still being murdered by passive verbs, so my lesson that morning included the use of creating logos and bumper stickers. I knew that my company was to arrive any minute, so I hurried my students along so that they could show off their finished products. Long story short, my students had a wonderful time while they learned; they were productive; however, apparently...I was not.

"Rather than instructing, you seemed to be mostly watching the kids give presentations of their work" was scribbled on a sticky note strategically placed on my computer screen. After I held my breath, fanned my face, and reflected, I had to agree with her. I did watch my students give their detailed explanations of their logos and bumper stickers to their peers. I watched my students asked each other politely, how or why they came up with that idea. I watched as 8th graders almost flawlessly presented their work to a room full of their peers and grumpy faced strangers. (Something else I watched was two of those grumps were crummy teachers 'back in their day.' How do I know? I remember them. In fact, they are two reasons I strive to be my best whether I'm in the classroom working or at my kitchen table correcting papers.) Ms. "All you did was watch," was absolutely right, but what she failed to observe is how my students got to a place of presenting a finished product with all the objectives met! Along with many elementary and middle school teachers, I was doing my job. To bad she couldn't see that.

The plan was to teach teachers how to teach. Silent Reading and some school wide projects were now deemed ineffective and quite possibly a waste of time. "Too many kids just stare at the pages!" claimed a newly anointed teacher of teachers. "You must make them accountable by instructing them to snap their fingers every time they hear you read a vocabulary term," said another. But my favorite quote is one I will always remember - "While the student is 0% accountable for his or her learning, Educators are 100% responsible for a students' education or learning."

"Huh?"

The rules continued to change. The State marched on with their check lists with "it's only a snap-shot" mentality. No longer were our students allowed to listen, contemplate, and discuss their emotions as Jonas asked the Giver about sameness and release; or why Guy Montag struggled with his secret stash of Shakespeare, Emerson (and oh my gosh), The Holy Bible! No. Students shouldn't learn by listening because they may not be listening! No. They must snap their fingers, choral a response, do a jig (that's my term for 'Responding Through Physical Representations'), write with different colored markers, or read aloud to a peer so the other 8th grader can assist them with the correct pronunciation, inflection, and tone. (Actually, I have always used these methods; just not within a 20 minute space of time as required by the parade of people that tromp through classrooms checking off their lists.)

When I started teaching, our students were tested for three whole weeks. Two were district tests, one given in August and the other in the spring to measure growth. The third test was the Standard 9. In order to simplify our testing efforts and give teachers added time to teach and students added time to learn, our state combined our new test, the AIMS, (Arizona Instrument to Measure Standards) with the Standard 9. Our district test was eliminated altogether. I don't know how it happened, but in doing away with too much testing time, we managed to increase district and state testing from 3 weeks a year to 9 weeks a year.

It's no wonder our educational system is in crisis. Every year is a new year with new requirements, revamped Bloom's, school-wide this and school-wide that. Last years curriculum requires a new text that wasn't ordered so we'll order it this year. Every classroom will have this book or that book with the latest scientifically proven method of how to teach...It's no wonder...

Okay, I Give Up! I'll Hide the Horses and Breakout the Model T

2008-01-03T18:40:00.000-08:00

Literature is full of Three's. For example, one may remember, The Three Blind Mice, The Three Wishes, or Sleeping Beauty's three fairy godmothers. For generations many have quivered omnisciently as the three Bears finished their walk in the woods, only to head straight home before Goldielocks could wake from her nap. There is one more 'three' that I personally deem significant taking place at this very moment, as I try for the third time to blog. Thanks to my sister, Cori, (now known to many in and out of the Web-World as the Go-to girl), I may finally begin my journey toward being a blogger; something my 20th century mind never dreamed of contemplating. So it is time to retire the horses and rev-up my engines.

I am a writer (or am I?) almost disguised as a teacher. I say 'almost' because I teach enthusiastically to 8th graders, many of whom may someday love to read and write. I began writing soon after I received a journal from my parents for my 8th birthday. Immediately, I recognized that my ability to express was better said in print than anything I could say verbally. By fourth grade my friend, Pamela, took those words and with loving correction, posted them on a bulletin board in our classroom. I was famous for a day as so many of my classmates copied those very words to wear upon their own notebooks. Did that make me a real writer?

In Middle School, writing for others' slipping in the occasional prepositional phrase, proved helpful in winning friends, while during high school I found other writing nerds that were willing to discuss the bruises of Steinbeck and the contemplations of Hemmingway. College proved differently, however, when writing grew into my fingernails. It was no longer a means of communicating a poem, or disseminating a part of speech to help earn my usual A on a term paper. That year writing became a mission to rescue one of my professors who simply could not write. Reading his required text made my teeth hurt. I took a chance and edited one of his texts from beginning to end and then sent it to him with what I envisioned as my last and final draft. Instead I received a phone call of 'thanks' and a request to submit next semesters print with my corrections. I wasn't aware at that time how ethical the 'writing world' is, and thought it interesting that he ask my permission. Now I wonder why didn't I get a commission? So why didn't I get a commission? I didn't ask.

During and after college, no matter what my major (yes, I'm one of those), I preferred to write about the goings-on. While in the nursing program, when I should have been enthralled with the krebs cycle, I studied religion and history in order answer my son's questions about Santa Clause. That study turned into a money making machine as I provided others with research and edited assignments to better their term paper scores. Did that make me a real writer?

I've learned that I am like most writers; I constantly question whether or not I am a writer because I am not yet published. I do, however, have a plethora of rejections filed away by date, place of submission, temperature outside, the vineyard of merlot dabbed on the back of the stamp, what slippers I wore when I opened my Dear Eager Writer letter - you get my drift...

So What's Next? I continue to submit my Children's Stories: JUNEBIRD, HOPPY THE BACKYARD COYOTE, and DOG HENRI. In the works is MATT CAT SKATEBOARD, beautifully illustrated by my friend and co-worker, Jose Moncado (he will be famous someday), and MRS. POPIT'S GOT GUM STUCK TO HER BUM. I also have two novels in the works. So What's Next? Right now it's bed for me. Goodnight.