I love to tell people that I chose my son’s high school because I like the coffee shop nearby. Although partially true- I do like the coffee- what I also like is harder to articulate, and perhaps less relevant if all you think about is coffee when choosing a coffee shop. I like the imperfect remodel of the old building. I like the colorful cups they utilize. I like the tongue in cheek names of the coffee drinks, and also the abundance of windows through which the sun is allowed the freedom to shine at will.

The people who also frequent my favorite shop make sitting in the sun over steaming coffee enormously interesting. As I look up, just plopping down at a spotted blue loveseat is a goateed young man wearing a well worn brown hooded sweatshirt and small round glasses; after setting down his lapis blue cup, he begins peering closely at his iphone, touching and concentrating so much and so long that I wonder if his coffee is forgotten. There is a beautiful young woman, her hair in corn rows, writing in a spiral notebook, textbook open underneath. A regal elderly woman walks by wearing a long camel wool coat and pristine Ferragamo shoes with their gold signature emblem reflecting the light.

Around the corner, I know there is a large, older woman wearing a colorful caftan using her red pen to grade or edit a document contained within a three ring binder. Perhaps it is a manuscript? I wish I could read it. Almost every person is reading here, except me; I have a legal pad open, writing. No one is talking, and one’s presence here is not a social event. There are newspapers for sale, the Dispatch, USA Today and the New York Times, but none are in use, or even left in disarray on an abandoned table to be reused. The reading methods of choice here are ipads, phones, laptops, and a man about my age on his Kindle.

If you walked into the coffee shop near my home, you would find very different characters. There, we are smiling and chatty, all buffed and polished with clean suede winter boots. The sink is perfectly polished and the foam is always thick and frothy. That coffee shop is well appointed in warm colors and has shiny table tops. Its many windows bear no streaks and are coated to prevent any one seat from being too bright. Before I think too much about this, I am distracted by a man outside the window in front of me who bends to tie his work boots.

As I look outside, I notice a thin path of frost shimmering on the flagstone walkway nearby; boxwoods stick out, bright green above brown green grass. There is still a chill in the winter air, but it is warm here in the sun.

Copyright 2011, Terise Ryan, all rights reserved.

Now that the Turkey Hill is open, there is some place to stop. I see people picking up the basics like milk and bread, and the foot long subs at two for five dollars is an incredible deal, especially for a high school boy’s lunch! Surely it is a God send for many, including the always hungry boys who go to high school around the corner, but inspirational?

I stopped to fill my gas tank. After stepping out of my van, scanning my Kroger Rewards card, then scanning my credit card, indicating that yes, I would like the meager ten cent per gallon discount (it all helps), and putting the hose in the tank, I leaned back against my van to wait.

I noticed a rusty black Chevrolet Blazer parked on the other side of the pump. Its tail pipe stuck out unnaturally. There were two women sitting in the front seat; no one was pumping gas. The window was slightly lowered. I watched their profiles for a moment as the woman closest to me opened a long, white envelope. She slid out the contents, two pages. I noticed the top page was a type written business-like letter with a green seal in its letterhead.

Silently, expressionless, she began to read. I watched as a slow smile formed. She raised her arm and the letter hitting the roof of the car. She laughed, “Woo Hoo!” She then whooped and hollered. The door opened quickly. The driver of the car had her hand hiding her face, but not her smile. Much to the driver’s chagrin, the woman next to me hopped out of her car, raised both arms, her coat flying open and, her bright, joy-filled eyes looking into mine. She danced next to me, squealing.

“Good news is always nice, isn’t it?” I said, laughing and sharing her smile.

“Yes, it is! Yes, it is!”

What a joy to share good news with this person. Precisely what the good news was, I never learned. But I am just so glad she wasn’t all reserved, cool and sedate, like her friend wanted her to be. To delight in good news is one of life’s great joys all on its own. I will probably never forget seeing this woman at the gas station (of all places) and watching her dance of joy. She experienced an incredible sense of happiness, and shared it with a stranger. What a wonderful human interaction.

So many every day activities bring joy to our lives. The plane is on time. The score was 47-0. The grant was awarded. The baby slept all night. I was able to finish the triathlon. I passed the test. The contract is closed. Finally, the round-a-bout is open. I got a free sample. They gave me a discount. I am feeling better. I am glad you are home. It is a snow day. I made coffee. Dinner is ready. The book is available. The price of gas is down. The Turkey Hill is open.

Of all the possible interactions I could have had at that gas station, I was given that particular one as a gift, making me inspired to share joy too.

My first formal resolution was presented at Buckeye Girls’ State along with a key to our city to Sherrod Brown, who is now a member of the United States Senate. Maybe that was one of my better resolutions!

Here is a list of some of my past resolutions, and what happened:

Travel the Nile River by boat (not done)
Play in a symphony (not done)
Go to law school (done)
Write a novel (not, but have started a few)
Be a published writer (many times now)
Marry a wonderful person (done)
Have a maid (not done, and cannot imagine it)
Lose weight (done, and gained, and as such, I guess not done)

Like I said, it has been many years since my first resolution. This year I am making a few, most that I will probably not share with you, dear reader, although those who know me can probably guess what they might be.

In 2010, I alternated between writing a lot and writing a little in this blog. One reason for the decrease in blogging was because my other work became more demanding. Additionally, I learned that publishers would rather not have had my work published in a blog format prior to being published by them. As a result, I have done more private writing. Working with editors is both humbling and enlightening. I hope you will find some of my works out there in the vast array of publications soon.

Be it resolved, however, that in 2011, I will regularly write in my blog. I know that for many, this is a way to keep in touch. For you to share bits of our buona vita, our good life, as described here, just feels like a good way to start a new year.

Copyright, 2011, Terise Ryan, all rights reserved.

Nina, holding the beginnings of her quart.

Tucked behind the farm stand is this little, lovely grotto.

The small, robust man wore a straw hat with a dark, leather braided trim. It was the first time I had seen anyone at this farm stand, having seen the sign, “Urso’s Orchard” for the past several years.

This farm stand is on an almost there road. It is not the one that causes my breath to catch; nor is it the one where I can breathe again. It is the almost there, no more stops, road that I have driven nearly every summer of my life. Normally, my drive on this road is spent paying little attention to the scenery. This time, something caused me to slow down, and seeing this man, his shirt unbuttoned in the July heat, and a stand loaded with colorful produce, I pulled the wheel to the right and turned onto his gravel path.

“I’ll just be a minute.” I assured my children, two awake but grumbling about the stop, tucking a ten dollar bill into my pocket.

I was immediately drawn to full, deep green potted basil plants. Huge! “Five Dollars” was written in what looked like crayon on an irregular square of yellow construction paper.

“Hello! These are gorgeous!” I said, greeting the man.

“Ah! They make a good sauce.” He replied. I could hear his Italian-accented English. While he chose my tomatoes, one of my children emerged to ask me to buy raspberries, and also peaches, until I realized that my cash was limited and had to stop. Reluctantly, we tucked our goodies into the few bare spots at our feet in the car and continued on our way.

In the years since, this lovely man has shown my children how to harvest raspberries, squash and tomatoes. He has taught me to make squash soup, choose cantaloupes, and to transplant seedlings, including maple trees, beginning with the basil plant I bought that first afternoon. I have observed his restrained pride when talking about his former life in Italy, smiled at his loving directness with his helping grandchildren, and felt his concern when his wife was recovering slowly from surgery.

As for today, I am preparing chicken for my father to grill for dinner. I know my friend will have something perfect for on the side.

Copyright 2010, Terise Ryan, all rights reserved.

After checking in at the office, where no one asked me my language fluencies, I walked to the classroom, and opened the door, from which hung the Mexican flag. Just getting ready to read the brief lesson plans (thankfully, written in English), I was interrupted when the first person walked into the classroom.

“Hola!” A tall, yet round, young man said jovially. “Yo hablo espaniol?”

“I must admit, not at all.” He told me he was a student teacher next door. “Maybe they should have just asked me.” He wished, and as for me, I took the job thinking that a person supervising was better than an idle class of teenagers. The teacher had planned ahead, however, and all but one class met in the information center to work in groups researching projects on Spanish speaking countries.

It was not a bad gig for me, to spend several hours looking over the shoulders of teens surfing the web for information, like pictures of the food, culture, history and landmarks of a variety of countries in central and South America. I noticed some quick, random viewing of ESPN and DSW- for project related research, I was told.

When I think of Spanish-style food, I do not think of desserts, but I noticed the recipe for at least one dolce made its way into a power point. Pictures of colorful clothing made their way in as well, and I thought how I recently watched (with sadness) the last episode of Ugly Betty and for four years Betty looked as colorful, her wardrobe woven like what was shown of the rich, traditional clothing of countries such as Peru and El Salvador.

These students were goal oriented. They were trying to crank out their projects so they can move on to graduation or summer break. As I supervise them, I didn’t have a similar focus. Floating from terminal to terminal, over one shoulder and then another, my mind wanders. I thought about our family vacation, still unplanned.

I am pretty sure a Spanish speaking country will not be the holiday spot for us this year. I’d love to experience some of these countries, but I have already promised my husband Ireland, and, if we go abroad, this may have to come first.

I did not learn any new Spanish words teaching that day, but I did learn that the people of El Salvador, Salvadorians, have a custom that when visiting someone’s home, you should always arrive 30-45 minutes late. I found this both interesting and slightly humorous, since this is the custom in my husband’s family as well.

The bell rang, the students promptly bolted out, and I wondered if arriving late is the custom in Ireland.

Copyright 2010, Terise Ryan, all rights reserved.

My entire household was still sleeping when I left, way before sunrise, to get across town in time for a seven am arrival. When I approached the drive, there was a stream of headlights, hundreds of students driving themselves to school, as well as a row of busses, joining me, all with timely arrivals.

I checked in at the office, and walked a long hallway, bending right, then right again in the shape of a block o, all the way around to 1519. Settling in, I began reading the lesson plans, and reviewed the class roster. My first group of students would be all 12th graders. Seniors, 4th quarter, first day back from spring break. I wonder why the teacher decided to extend her own break by one day.

The first class, “Discrete.”

Their school bell rings gently, as a tone, but the crush of students is dynamic, loud, aggressive, happy, sullen, and fluid.

I decided it was best to be real. Without preamble, I told them my name, marital status, educational background, kids, ages, and interests. They were interested. One teased me about Villanova losing, and one asked my son’s name. Then, I disclosed, “I am not a math.”

They cheered.

One said, “You know what Friday is?”

Before I could answer, his classmate said, “Good Friday.”

Who said there is no religion in public schools?

“It is my birthday,” he proclaimed, but there were no cheers in response, and so I asked,
“Eighteen?”
“Yep.”

“Awesome.” By this time I have handed out worksheets left by the teacher, and told them they can work together.

One student got out a chocolate muffin and Diet Dr. Pepper. She had dyed red hair, narrow glasses, and a short pencil, perfectly sharp with an unused eraser. She worked diligently, but occasionally looked up and listened in to the conversation of two other girls nearby. When she stood, I noticed red paint on the leg of her jeans.

At the same time, the young man turning eighteen went over to the shelves that housed games. Before school started, I had noticed these shelves, which housed rather juvenile games, including Hungry, Hungry Hippos, Candy Land and Sorry. He chose Trouble, and I wondered if that meant anything.

There was some minor scooting of the school desk-chair units to create a nice foursome of broad backs and denim clad men, smiling. After a brief discussion over music, an itouch played acid rock and I heard the first popping of the dice in the Trouble bubble. When I walked past, they were alternating, taking turns in the game and completing their worksheet.

Some elected not to work on math at all. I figured they’d rather do it at home, given it was their first day back, they are seniors, and it was a rainy Monday. For teenagers, the pull to socialize is just greater than the influence of a substitute teacher, albeit one who is gentle in her, “Are you sure you don’t want to work a little harder on this?”

As for my day, only two students asked for math help, and one I actually did help. I never did figure out what “Discrete” means, but I made it through.

The red-headed student finished her worksheet and drew an incredible abstract, geometric bit of art on the white board. She was happy, and signed it, when I asked her to leave it up so I could enjoy it all day.

Among the seniors, one is probably going to Afghanistan to serve in the Army after boot camp, one is going to Iceland for a year, and one is going to Ashland. Not all of them opened up to me.

The birthday boy is recovering from a foot injury and is delaying college to go to a one year intensive sports school in Virginia for football. I did not get a chance to tell him about our family passion for football, but later in the day, when he was walking, flanked by two friends, in the hallway, he looked me in the eye, smiled and raised his arm in triumph or hello, “Hi Mrs. Ryan!” He turned to his friend and said, “She’s cool.”

Maybe someday I will get the chance to tell him.

Copyright 2010, Terise Ryan, all rights reserved.

I never know what I am going to read on these blogs. Sometimes recipes, sometimes book ideas, sometimes travel reviews, it varies. This is what I have come to love: the “whatever girls” blog when they want, about what they want, and it is real and honest.

For nearly two years now I have followed Jennifer’s emotions about her mother. First, her mom’s grave illness, then the loss of her, and now this entry, I pass along to you, and I know that for some of my readers, this will touch on your own emotions.

18 months later…
January 22nd, 2010
i grew up not wanting for much (except a little more attention from boys maybe!), did well enough in school, graduated college, law school, met my husband, got married, had two kids, fell into an amazingly fulfilling career…it was all good. (and this is, of course, completely revisionist history because like most people, i was a miserable teenager/20 something who felt like a complete and utter loser who would never find actual happiness…like ever!)

then cancer showed up and took my mother, wrecking me really for a considerable amount of time.

and although i am recovering, living, even thriving, i am hardened.

having been through the trenches with my mother i am now full of knowledge and experience that i can share 18 months later in an almost clinical, emotionless and detatched way. probably much the same way that oncologists handle their patients.
i can assess how sick someone is by symptoms and i can be the one to warn a loved one about how little time left the person suffering may have, i can talk through what might happen next, and i can certainly offer solace for a friend who’s grieving and i can do all of this now without falling apart.
which is great on the one hand and incredibly sad on the other.

because although helping others, keeping it together and being emotionally stable is infinitely preferable to uselessness and inconsolable sadness, i like my mushy overly feeling self and i don’t want to be hardened.

luckily, it takes just the running into an old family friend who’s real link to me is my mother to send me back to that familiar emotional place that rests two layers beneath my recently hardened exterior. and for a minute, after i am initially annoyed that i’ve been reminded about what makes me sad, i relish the emotion. i cry. and i am comforted that i haven’t lost all of my ability to feel.

and maybe, down the road, i won’t be hardened anymore. and maybe i won’t be sad either.
xxx
jennifer

It is unspeakable pain, and yet also hopefulness, generously shared.

Copyright 2010, Terise Ryan, all rights reserved, except that portion taken from the Whatever blog of Jennifer Koppelman Hutt.

I wish I saved the poem I carried back then, a piece of loose leaf paper containing the words, attributed to Saint Matthew’s book of the Bible, written in turquiose ink. This morning I pass it on to someone special.

Everyone longs to give themselves completely to someone-
To have a deep soul relationship with another-
Be loved thoroughly, and exclusively.
But God, to a Christian, says:
I want you to be satisfied, fulfilled, and content
With being loved by Me alone-
With giving yourself totally and unreservedly to Me-
With having an intensely personal and unique relationship
With Me alone.

By discovering that only in Me is your satisfaction to be found,
Will you be capable of the best human relationship
That I have planned for you.
I want you to be united with another after you are united with Me-
Exclusive of anyone or anything else,
Exclusive of any other desires or longings.
I want you to stop planning, stop wishing,
And allow Me to give you the most thrilling plan existing-
One that you cannot imagine.
I want you to have the best-
Please allow Me to bring it to you.
You just keep watching Me, trusting Me-
Keep experiencing the satisfaction that I am.
Keep listening and learning the things I tell you.
You just wait.
That’s all.

Don’t be anxious.
Don’t worry.
Don’t look around at the things
Others have gotten or that I’ve given them.
Don’t look at the things you think you want.
You just keep looking off and up to Me,
Or you’ll miss what I want to show you.

And then, when you’re ready, I’ll surprise you with a love
Far more wonderful than any you would dream of.
You see, until you are ready and until the one I have for you is ready,
(I am working even at this moment to have both of you ready at the same time),
Until you are both satisfied exclusively with Me and the life I prepared for you,
You won’t be able to experience the love that exemplifies your relationship with me.
And this is the perfect love.

And dear one, I want you to have the most wonderful love.
I want you to see in the flesh a picture of your relationship with Me,
And to enjoy materially and concretely the everlasting union of beauty, perfection, and love
That I offer you with Myself.
Know that I love you utterly.
I am God.
Believe and be satisfied.

-author and original title unknown

Any children’s Bible
Love You Forever
Good Night Gorilla
Good Night Moon
Big Rigs
No Nap
The Napping House
The House on Mango Street
The Goodbye Window
Time to Sleep
Quick as a Cricket
Boxcar Children
Magic Tree House (for the history much more than the writing)
Miss Rumphius
Anne of Green Gables
Cold, Sassy Tree
The King of Mulberry Street
The Penderwick’s on Gardam Street
The Penderwick’s: The Summer…
Ida B.
Along for the Ride
Speak

There are more that I really like, I am sure. Remind me what I have forgotten, please!

Sorry, not Harry Potter, haven’t read it. Nor Twilight, haven’t read that either…

Copyright 2010, Terise Ryan, all rights reserved.