Nice, In A Grandfatherly Way

Dear Maria,

Memorial Day weekend, arrived and gone. A welcome respite for my former colleagues who now must surely know the end is soon come. And as of next Saturday night, the last of my students, members of the Class of ’14, will receive their diplomas and off they will go on their personal adventures.

Last week I was reminded again during a conversation with my sister how I had never been a parent of my own children, and so in so many obvious ways I was given a pass on that tilt-a-whirl of emotions and responsibilities. Students returned to their homes, and I returned to mine. Works out that way with nieces and nephews as well.

This morning in the shower, the hot water blasting my head—which is good for thinking, or so says some research—I returned in my mind to more than two years ago when an assistant principal gleefully told me that a student described me as being nice, in a grandfatherly way. Ouch.

Simple, the arithmetic. Seventeen-year-old student, 37 year-old parents, and kindly 57-year-old Mr. Kaple. Ouch, again, but there you have it. Now, as I have time to reconsider the span of years in the classroom, I wish more of my years in front of my students were more grandfatherly. Took a long time for my heart to catch up with my head—never quite did, honestly. But clearly more so later than earlier, I think.

We stand at the edge of the slipperiest of slopes when we begin a conversation about what is or is not important in the classroom, what is necessary or not necessary. I always doubted, knew I erred, but still I pushed forward with the work. I always cared about the welfare of my students, but perhaps I was not easy enough in my own saddle to balance the meaning of the work with the need for a heart. As a grandfather might do.

Would be easy to launch into can’t know until you get there musings, but that too is a slope I would just as soon not tumble down.

Of late, a blue jay has taken to visiting the rescue elm out front around mid-morning. Perhaps he needs some time from the demands of the nest. Or, perhaps he is Old Grandfather Jay and may make his way around at his leisure.

At my leisure, then. With you and for you, srk

Han Solo, Napoleon Solo, and Solo Cups...

Dear Maria,

Good morning—air cool, plants flourishing and grass greening, and Max had me stepping lively on the morning walk. Not sure what he thinks was the highlight of our stroll, but a wren in hot pursuit of a crow made me laugh out loud. The little guys plucking the tail feathers of larger birds always entertains me. I’ll let others mine that tidbit for any deeper significance.

Last time we talked talked, you asked some tough questions about solitude and loneliness, and of course once on my mind, I had to kick that can down the road mentally. Rather than retrace any notions on those topics from Thoreau et al, I am going to play my bell-curve gambit—yes, yes, I know might not be a topic suited for a statistical analysis, but strikes me that like most human characteristics, must be some in the population that thrive on their solitude and some that abhor the notion. And then most people mostly clustered together in some sort of middle ground.

I know a number of folks think because I live alone, it was Max who rescued me. Strikes me their concern—appreciated, of course—says as much about them as about my circumstance, and maybe more. Kind of like with retirement as there are those who still recommend with great enthusiasm what I ought to be doing with my life at this point.

For me, solitude is a choice and loneliness is not. I think a lot of us who live alone, either by choice or by circumstance or some mix of the two, will confess to moments—maybe more than a few—when we want someone else on the sofa next to us or sitting with us outside chatting about the day, or handing us the bottle of wine to pour two glasses.

Or little physical gestures of affection are missed—holding hands, a kiss on the cheek, the warmth of another person cuddled as the lights are turned off for the day.

Don’t get me started on sharing a laugh.

Sounds like I am lonely, but my solitude generally stands me in good stead for the time being. Pangs of loneliness or sorrow or longing ring out a hundred times louder than the peace of contentment that often passes without comment. Maybe a stone hurled against the Fortress of Solitude’s wall from time to time is not such a bad thing.

And don’t you know we have friends who would take a couple of days of solitude in a heartbeat.

A busy summer for you with family and friends will distract you from wondering too much about my psyche—remember, Max is ever present.

Be well, and maybe another talk talk by and by.

Yours, srk 

Mother's Day

Dear Maria,

Happy Mother’s Day! Hope your morning began in pleasant fashion and the day drifts along gently. Here, a few afternoon showers are popping up, but nothing too ominous. Yet.

The gardenias are blooming now on one side of the garden while the jasmine is in full flower 20 feet away. Makes the humid mornings and evenings richly scented. That would be understatement. Makes me think I should be sitting in the French Quarter with an order of beignets in front of me along with the morning coffee.

Max has been feeling puckish the last two days, even refusing breakfast yesterday, but signs of life are returning as he did eat a bit more than half of breakfast today and so the pup will recover. I suspect some foul something or other he was chowing down on out back Friday was the culprit. But, this morning walk out at the school found him bouncing along mostly. Dogs.

Went out and kicked some hulls this morning. The boat bug bites once again. One with sails, naturally. Having to adjust my sight a bit. Keep looking with 40-year-old eyes like a kid at the Tonka factory. Need to ease into more of a—oh, the more elegant phrase would be ease into becoming a gentleman sailor. One boat via craigslist has caught my attention, and I await word. Need to get back on the water.

I guess you are aware of the mass kidnapping of girls in Nigeria—and on this day of all days, hard not to think of the mothers of those children and how they cope with such a personal tragedy and national disaster. Of course, thousands of mothers here battle daily for the lives of their children, but we often lose focus on their individual stories when such mind-boggling thuggery, or worse, dominates our media.

And so my mind wanders and I wonder, so many orphans out there—are there enough mothers in this world to care for them. Fortunately, the mothers I know—those who have been long at the task of caring for children and now tend to grandchildren, those who are celebrating their first Mother’s Day, and those who are somewhere in between—hold their children close in their hearts.

Once again I am thankful to be part of a world that is, by and large, kept on its axis for many of us by so many great moms.

May today and the days that come be blessed for you and your family.

Yours, srk

Fair Days...

Dear Maria,

Good afternoon! I trust the weather in your corner of the world has you out and about. We are having warm days and cool mornings—suits me as just right. This morning while I was reading out back, the sun warmed the air enough so that a bit of an uprush—no, too strong a word—a bit of  a current rose from the jasmine on the lattice behind me and flickered across the roses and the rustled up through the oak. The jasmine is in a good, deep bloom. Even Max sticks his snout in the bush and snorts a nose-full.

Oh, the new crop of bluebirds showed last week. I missed the puffball stage somehow, and so now they are looking like miniature versions of their adult forms. An older and a younger male shared the top of the condo for a bit just after sunrise. And the first hummingbird of the season did a quick flyby as well, a ruby-throated male. First of that type I have seen in this garden.  He was quickly disappointed as my flowers do not offer much to hummingbirds or butterflies until the summer.

Out of the loop of late, but last week, I overheard several friends lamenting the arrival of the magnet school lottery as they waited for news of a first child or a younger sibling making it into a school more to their liking. Seems somehow not right that public schools are created that advertise they are doing something special and then kids and their parents are  subjected to the luck of the draw. Sort of “You can look, but you can’t enroll”.

In some circumstances there does seem to be a bit of gamesmanship going on. Doesn’t seem fair. I can hear the snorting and bleating begin: Life’s not fair. I always want to cock my head and retort, “You think I made it to 60 without snagging that nugget of insight along the way?”

I think adults should always have to stand in front of the kids—the decision-makers I mean—and tell them that “Hey, you didn’t get the golden ticket.” Same for the district official that decides on a standardized test for all students in the district. Ought to have to stand before those students reading well below grade level and explain how the test score will count as 20% of their grade for the year, but it’s the best thing to do for everyone.

Okay, enough. The weather the past few days follows a dream I had last week of sailing in early evening on an outgoing tide that took me nearly to Fort Sumter—need a boat, or at least one of my former crew members if they want to sail must recognize that it’s time for them to own that wish.

May comes, summer follows. Be well, as always.

Yours, srk