Did you enjoy school?

I'm back in Pittsburgh after five days in San Antonio, visiting Dan and Holly in their new and lovely home. Everything is indeed bigger in Texas- 12 foot ceilings! I somehow managed to be in San Antonio for five days of clouds, rain, and cool temperatures. We stuffed a lot into those five days- the River Walk, a visit to Wayside Chapel, visits to several really delicious restaurants and finally, a fabulous last-minute drive through San Antonio to find a gas station and fill up the rental car. 

I also got to see a very interesting airport- Detroit- Terminal A has 78 gates and it is one looooooong building with a tram. There is a terminal B- much shorter, and a psychedelic tunnel that connects the two terminals. Truly- it has swirling, changing colors and patterns with odd music. My final assessment of the airport is.....thank goodness for moving walkways!

And now for today's writing.

Did you enjoy school?

Do you remember how much you wanted summer vacation to start? That feeling used to start right around Labor Day, which is when I used to go back to school (elementary, junior, senior high). I don’t remember particularly liking or disliking school as a kid, other than feeling out of place and therefore not always comfortable there. I didn’t have many friends in elementary school, and was picked on a lot once I began wearing glasses. When I try to remember elementary school, the bullying and feeling like an outsider is what I remember most.

When I was to start sixth grade, my parents transferred me from the public school to a private school for girls. I made my first real friends there and built some confidence in my abilities. I did well in my classes and was involved in drama and choir. I liked studying the sciences but don’t recall anything else in particular as a favorite subject. Although the English elective "TV and You" in 11th grade was definitely fun, if a bit empty of academic worth.

College was a weird time for me. I went from an all-girls school with 135 people in my class to a university of 4000 mostly male students (the school had only been co-ed for 7 years). EVERYONE there had been in the top ten percent in their high schools, and so for 90% of us it was a shock to find ourselves ranked below (sometimes FAR below) where we had been in high school. Lehigh University was also insanely competitive, far far more than high school. I floundered a bit before finding my footing. Despite my love for the sciences, I found myself competing against the extremely intense people who would spend two years at Lehigh and then 4 years at Hahnemann Medical School. I had to choose between studying something I loved or studying something at which I could succeed, hence my BA in English Literature. What I really wanted was to become a nurse, but I had to graduate from college first, and by the time I chose my major, I had become another competitive Lehigh student.

From Lehigh I went to nursing school and there my love for school flourished and it became more about the learning than the competition. I loved what I was studying and practicing and therefore loved the entire pursuit. Ever since then I have been an ardent student. Sometimes I’ve been an official student, earning a post-bacc Bachelor of Science in Nursing, a Master of Nursing Science, and a post- Master’s certificate in Healthcare Informatics. Other times I have taught myself. When I am embarking upon a new endeavor I often throw myself into a study of that area- for example, when I got a job with a revenue cycle consulting company, I read and learned a great deal about the revenue cycle of a hospital, even though that wasn’t my area of concentration.

After I completed my last degree, everyone asked me if I would go on for my doctorate. The answer to that is no, no, no. I've reached a place in my life where I am no longer interested in deadlines, bulletin board postings, APA formatting, and reading endless articles written by the same 10 people. I like school but I am done with school.

The answer to the question is, yes, I enjoyed school. But what I enjoy even more is learning. Our digital age presents a lot of free opportunities to learn a variety of subjects- iTunes U, Coursera, Lynda.com (not free but you get a lot of choices for a yearly fee). Even Audible.com now sells The Great Courses, which are university lectures on history, art, science, philosophy and more. I wrote about some of these opportunities last year in an earlier blog. 

An arrogant businessman hits a car full of old ladies. He gets out and approaches their vehicle, blaming them for the accident

An arrogant businessman hits a car full of old ladies. He gets out and approaches their vehicle, blaming them for the accident. 

Donovan, Melissa (2014-01-02). 1200 Creative Writing Prompts (Adventures in Writing) (p. 9). Swan Hatch Press. Kindle Edition. 


Darn it, he was late again and it was his mother’s fault. She always called him at the most inopportune times; why couldn’t she understand that he was a busy man, an important man and didn’t have time to visit? Yes, it had been several years since he had been to see her but he had been busy, building his clientele. In fact, he was the youngest account executive at Batterson Advertising, respected by the other execs and admired by the support staff, especially the ladies. Why didn't wasn't she content to shop and garden with her batty old lady friends? Irritated, he gunned the engine as he turned onto 5th, only to find himself headed right for a stalled car. He was going too fast to miss it and plowed right into the rear quarter panel of an old boat of a car. His airbag deployed, filling the compartment with choking particles and smoke. After the big bang of the collision, all he could hear was his engine coughing and dying. His car! HIs perfect, beautiful car! Who had been so stupid as to stall in the middle of the street? It was clearly their fault- they should have pushed their car to the side of the street. They were so thoughtless! His anger simmered and then boiled over as he reached for the door handle. He was going to shred the driver of that stalled car, turn him into mincemeat.


As his door began to open, he heard a sharp rap on the window. What was this? He snapped his head up and met the steeliest pair of green eyes that he had ever seen. The green eyes were in a face that was soft with age, but the mouth was pursed and tight and the eyes were piercing him right to his seat. The the old lady spoke. “Get out of that car, young man. You have a lot of explaining to do! She rapped on the window again for emphasis, and he saw that she had a cane with a brass top, fashioned into what looked like….a bat? He felt a creeping fear and then just as quickly shoved it away That crash must have addled his brains- how could he be afraid of an old lady?



He opened the car door, swung his legs out, looked up and saw….another pair of steely eyes, these the grey-blue of thunderclouds. Odd- she had the same aged face, even the same wavy white hair- and a cane, but this one was topped by an upside-down brass bat. Now he KNEW that he must have hit his head. He probably had a concussion. Steely blue-eyed lady banged her cane sharply on the ground and said, “Get up out of that car and explain yourself! Why did you not stop when you saw our car?” 


He felt irritation returning. This was definitely not his fault. These two women had left their stalled car in the middle of the street and it was their fault that he had run into them! He stood, hoping to intimidate the old women by towering over them. But as he straightened up, he heard a cold voice from behind him, on the passenger side of the car. “Young man, you are a menace on the roads and you will certainly be made to pay for the damage to our car!” He spun to see the coldest pair of brown eyes that he had ever seen boring into him over the roof of his car. Odd, he thought. He had never seen cold brown eyes before but this woman’s eyes and expression made him shudder. She raised her cane, topped with a brass bat with wide-spread wings, and shook it at him.


Okay, this was too much. He was an important, admired, respected man and he wasn’t going to be bullied by a bunch of old ladies, no matter how steely their eyes or creepy their canes. And then from the old ladies’ boat of a car came an eerily familiar and harsh voice. “Young man, you will come to this car and help me get out of my seat. Right. Now.” He strode over to the car, determined that THIS woman was going to bear his wrath. He yanked open the driver’s door, earning a "tsk tsk" from the women behind him and a hiss from the woman in the driver’s seat. He reached for the driver’s arm but instead had his knuckles rapped by a cane topped with a brass, beady-eyed bat. The driver elegantly stepped from the car, stood up to her full height of five feet, narrowed her eyes and said sweetly, “Well, hello David. I thought we might run into each other one of these days.”


“Hi...mom...”

Did you have a favorite or least favorite teacher? Why?

I'm back- I was traveling on Friday, to visit my son and daughter-in-law in Texas. We had to change planes in Detroit- I have never seen an airport terminal as long as that one! We came in at Gate A72 and had to go to gate A43 for our connecting plane. Thank goodness for moving walkways (or, as Ken put it, flat escalators)- we rode FOUR of them on our way down to the gate. Ken says we walked/rode at least a quarter of a mile. The flight from Pgh to Detroit was awful- the plane was packed and small and I hate flying and I have claustrophobia....the flight to Detroit was much better because the plane was only half full and I had the two seats to myself. And I was by myself because the flight attendant very apologetically moved me from the exit seating row because of my ... size. They were very nice about it, though, and put me in Economy Comfort. Ken could have moved up with me but he knew I would appreciate the comfort of having the two seats to myself. He's the best!
Now, for today's writing:


Did you have a favorite or least favorite teacher? Why?


I had a lot of “least favorite” teachers-  the ones who stick in my mind are my first grade teacher, third grade teacher and then one teacher in high school who taught history. Their teaching methods had a lot in common- they either yelled all the time or they mocked students, including me. I was too young in elementary school to think through rationalities about those teachers and their behaviors; to me they were simply mean and I was afraid of them. The third grade teacher was actually a very good teacher and 40-something years later I still remember her drilling us through the times tables. But she was a yeller and she didn’t hesitate to yell your name and shame you in front of your classmates. 


By the time I was  junior in high school I had acquired reasoning skills and the ability to think things through and look for answers or rationale. My history teacher was very harsh and would say really nasty things out loud in class- but only if she felt you were being lazy or not “working to your potential.” I do not understand why people believe that public mockery is the best way to encourage better performance (and I continue to see this in the working world as well), when a private word that is positive will most often produce the desired results. I must have been a lazy student in her eyes because she picked on me a LOT. Even when I did something correctly or went the extra mile on an assignment, she would crush me by saying something like “you should have been doing this all along,” or “sure, you did it this time but what assurance do I have that you will do this on all future assignments?”


Reflecting on this as an adult, I have to wonder if the screaming teachers were frustrated or tired or burned out. My first and third grade teachers were both gray-haired and probably nearing retirement. My 55-year old self has only my childhood memories of gray hair and wrinkles, and so I have always thought of them as older/old women. My adult self can give them the benefit of the doubt, now that I have lived to this ripe age and experienced frustration and the fatigue of being in my fifties. And because I have only childish memories, I cannot know for sure why they were screamers.


My high school history teacher is another matter. I was 16 and my memories are sharper, perhaps because of the emotions attached to them. I have never liked being mocked (who does?) and I take things personally, often too personally. I can be devastated by harsh words, even today, although I have gotten better at hiding it. My teacher was a nun in the 1970s, when so many nuns were leaving their orders and venturing out into the world. My teacher was around 40 and for those nuns, I think it was really difficult to decide what to do. Many of the younger nuns had only recently left “the world” and could return to it more easily. Nuns in their forties in the 1970s entered convents in the 1950s, before the upheaval of Vatican II. Their path to sisterhood was very structured and in some cases even child-like, in that the nuns were seen and treated like children with their superiors telling them what to do, how to dress, how to make their bed, how to pray and how to live. Like military training, that had to be very difficult conditioning to break. This is just speculation, but I wonder now if my history teacher felt trapped in a position because she no longer had the ability to make her own choices or lacked the confidence to take her own steps. Or maybe she was just a mean, miserable person who used negative reinforcement because that was how she was taught. Teachers like her taught me not just history or French or chemistry; they taught me the value of positive reinforcement, especially for impressionable children and teenagers. 


Ironically, my favorite teacher was also a nun. She was about the same age as the history teacher but she was a much more positive and open person. She was my AP biology teacher and when time permitted, she often allowed us to question her about what it was like to become a nun and live as a nun. She was frank and honest and we loved her for it. We could tell her anything about our lives and she would offer encouragement and hope. She told us just before spring break that she was leaving the convent but would be returning to us as a lay teacher. That took courage, because I’m certain some of the less loving sisters on the faculty would be as harsh with her as they were with us, and indeed this was so. I only learned that years later during a high school reunion. She took those harsh criticisms and rose above them, and turned them to positive. She was truly a great teacher, because she gave us life skills as well as AP biology, and I loved her dearly.  

A Bit of Fiction

Today's post is a fictional account, based on a creating writing prompt.

On the first day of school, two best friends discover a frightening secret about one of their new teachers.

Source of this prompt: Donovan, Melissa (2014-01-02). 1200 Creative Writing Prompts (Adventures in Writing) (p. 6). Swan Hatch Press. Kindle Edition. 

It’s the first day of sophomore year of high school. Being a sophomore is only marginally better than being a freshman. At least you’re an upperclassman, but sophomore year is the year you spend waiting to turn sixteen so you can learn to drive. It’s going to be a long and boring year; at least that’s what Sarah and Drew think. They live in a small town and everyone knows everyone else. No one leaves and no one new ever comes along. Half of Sarah and Drew’s teachers taught their parents in high school, because their town just doesn’t change.


Homeroom started at 7:30 in room 202. Sarah and Drew took seats together in the back of the room, mostly so they could mock some of their classmates without being overheard. The room was noisy with the sound of teenage voices calling across the room to one another. Drew looked up at the wall clock; it was 7:37 and Mr. Ransom, their homeroom teacher, was late. After a few more minutes of banter, the students heard the sound of the doorknob turning and the click as the door was opened. They settled down, waiting for Mr. Ransom, but instead were surprised to see a thirty-something woman enter the room and cross to the teacher’s desk.


Sarah, Drew, and the rest of the students stared at the tall, angular woman. No one had every seen her before. She had short blond hair and large, dark eyes that seemed to see everyone at once. She moved gracefully as she stepped behind the desk, turned, and wrote her name on the white board: Mrs. Jessie Strait. They were still staring as she turned around and surveyed them all. Each  student felt as if she was staring right at them and no one else. It was only a moment but it seemed like forever, and then Mrs. Strait spoke with a low voice. “I am Mrs. Strait. Mr. Ransom has retired and I am your new homeroom and History teacher.” She did not smile at all and Sarah swallowed nervously. Who was this woman? Why hadn’t anyone ever seen or heard of her before? As Sarah listened to Mrs. Strait talk about homeroom rules and expectations, the class began to buzz as kids traded whispers and speculations. Sarah saw Mrs. Strait’s lips tighten just before she slammed a fist down onto the desk. In the stunned silence that followed, Mrs. Strait said, “I expect silence when I speak. It is a measure of respect. Do not make me ask you again.” Sarah and Drew exchanged glances and when the bell rang for first period, there was a speedy but quiet rush for the door.


Sarah and Drew met up again at 4th period lunch, and as expected, the air was full of questions, and rumors. The room quieted just a bit as Mrs. Strait walked past the cafeteria and after she passed, the conversations picked up again. One student said that Mrs. Strait had already assigned detention to four students. Another said that she had caught someone smoking out back and had them suspended immediately. Drew said, “Marcus told me that Mrs. Strait dropped a book and swore…but it wasn’t in English!” “She swore?” said Sarah. “What language was it?” Drew leaned eagerly toward Sarah and whispered, “It sounded like Russian!” As Drew sat back, pleased at imparting this news, Sarah could only shake her head. How would Marcus know that it was Russian? No one in their little school spoke Russian. She was about to say that to Drew when she heard someone at the next table say something that stilled the entire corner of the room. “She’s in witness protection. My uncle works for the FBI and I overheard him telling my mom this morning. She’s a Russian defector!”

What Do You Crave and Why?

So- what do I crave and why? Lots of things flashed through my head but they were things I want. Being the English major that I am, I decided to look up the definition of crave. It means to feel a powerful desire for (something). Based on that, a “crave” is much more than a “want.” I want to be at the beach. I want my family close. I want a healthy family.

The thoughts that sometimes consume me are probably what I crave. I crave a normal 55-year-old woman’s body, not a body with herniated disks and a mangled ankle. I crave the normal aches and pains of middle age, not the constant chronic aches in my back, ankle, and now right knee. That poor knee took most of my weight for each ankle surgery, probably a total of 9 months. No wonder it hurts all the time and now it, too, has arthritis, just like my lower back and ankle.

This will sound odd but I crave passion. Somewhere in the last few years I lost the passion I had for getting out of bed each day and doing whatever I was to do that day. I don’t know what my passion is. I am cautiously optimistic about writing, because I’ve always wanted to do it, but at the same time I’m afraid that if I invest myself in it and fail, I will really crash.

Last week I returned to Community Bible Study, a women’s bible study that was the center of my life for 10 years. I had to give it up 12 years ago to go back to work. Sitting in the pews at North Park Church last week felt so right and so good. I think I have been craving a return to CBS for many years. When I was at CBS I was a leader as well as a student. I felt connected to wherever I was serving at the time (children’s worship leader, homeschool teacher, core group leader and more). I had a close bond with a group of ladies that I remain close to even years after leaving. I guess I’m saying that I crave the kind of love and acceptance and worth that I received as a member of CBS. I’m not saying that I don’t get that from my husband or kids- far from it! But there is a special love that comes from a group of women who are meeting with one purpose- to study the Word of God and share it with others.

Really, isn’t that what everyone craves? Love and acceptance based on how God sees you, rather than how your boss or co-worker or hubby or the driver in the next car see you? No wonder I felt as if I was finally at home. I was back at the place where I was loved for being Donna.

Writing, Writing, Writing.

I'm going to be doing a lot of writing. One of my writing exercises is a writing prompt and I'm going to try to publish them each day. Today's prompt: 

How Were You Named?

My name is Donna. There is a story I think I remember from my childhood, but in truth I don’t know if it is real or if I concocted it. The story goes that when I was born, the first child and a girl, my father wanted to name me Thomasina, which my mother nixed (thank goodness). She apparently wanted to name me Nicole, after my father, Nicholas, but he didn’t want that, saying that they would call me Nicki, which would be too confusing (that was HIS nickname). If this really happened, I suspect he wanted to reserve the name Nicholas (and Nicky) for the son he hoped to have one day. Being a good Italian man, he proposed Donna, which in Italian refers to “lady,” the Madonna being the exalted lady of the Catholic church. Again, I don't know if that is a true story but it's the one I'm sticking to.


Dad did get his Nicholas, but not until the second son. The first son was named Gregory, and the name Gregory doesn’t appear anywhere else in our family tree. I have three brothers; Gregory, Nicholas, and Paul and we soon shortened them to Greg, Nicko, and Paul. My father had a highly (to me) annoying habit of calling me Don, and when he would, I would say, “NA. DonNA.” He would occasionally call me Na because he knew it annoyed me. 


I hated being called Don because it was a boy’s name and I was a girl, the ONLY girl of the offspring of Nick and Irene. I didn’t even like the name Don for a boy and certainly didn’t want it as a nickname for myself. I have always discouraged people from using it as a nickname, though every once in a while someone will call me Don. Sometimes I ask them not to call me Don but if I don’t want to hurt their feelings, I don’t correct them.


I have always wanted a nickname but since the shortening of Donna led to Don, I couldn’t come up with one that was based on my name. When I went to college and met the other girls on my floor (Dravo 4 or D-4), I tried to have them call me DC, my initials, but that didn’t work. I find it a bit ironic that I'm married to Kenneth/Kenny/Ken and gave birth to Daniel/Danny/Dan and Caitlin/Caitie/Cait.


I have a memory, which again might be my imagination, of being told that my name was to be Donnamaria (one word) but that the person who filled out my birth certificate put Maria down as my middle name. If that is true, then Donna would be a nickname for Donnamaria. Yes, I am reaching.



I think I was named for a popular actress named Donna Reed, who starred in her own TV as Donna Stone, housewife extraordinaire who raised a son and daughter while being married to a pediatrician and performing wonderful feats of laundry and cooking. I wonder if the movie Pleasantville was a parody? The show ran from 1958 to 1966 and I believe that Donna was a popular name during those years. You certainly don’t find many young Donnas today. I looked up popular baby names for 1959 and Donna was #5 on the list behind Mary, Susan, Linda, and Karen. No Thomasina. Imagine that.

It's been awhile since I've blogged. I've been really, really busy with work. And when I come home from work, I spend time studying things that will make me more effective at work.

Have you ever seen a "quick-start" guide? You know- the inserts that come with a new gadget, that give you the short-cut to start using the gadget without having to read the manual (if you even GET a manual). I think people need a quick start guide. Here's mine.

1. I hate pepper. I like salt. Yes it is bad for you. But I prefer salt and I do not like pepper, which restaurants seem to be using by the gallon to cover up the fact that they're removed salt from their foods. I can't even get a bowl of spaghetti at Olive Garden anymore without having it smothered in pepper. I have very mild hypertension which is under control.

2. I like gadgets. Don't judge. Some people spend money on shoes or clothes or jewelery. I spend it on gadgets. And often those gadgets are useful.

3. I am obese. I know this. I do not need you to point it out. I do not need you to look at everything I put into my mouth. I know that it is not healthy and I know that many of my aches and pains are caused in part by the obesity. I have gained and lost several people in my lifetime. I am stable at my current weight. This is where I end up every time I try to lose weight.

4. If you are thin, do not hang around me and talk about how fat you are. I don't want to hear about your diet, and I really don't want the not-so-subtle hints that I should join the office weight-loss challenge.

5. If you recently lost a lot of weight, please do not appoint yourself as the person who will convince me to join Weight Watchers and LA Fitness. You are not an expert about me- you can only claim expertise about your own weight loss. Do not tell me about the wonders of exercise. You do not live in my body and you do not know what hurts. I will say this- my knees were fine until I started using an exercise bike. Now I can add bad knees to the bad back and bad ankle.

6. I do not like talking on the phone. I tend not to talk to very many people on the phone. Don't take it personally if I don't call a lot or spend a lot of time on the phone. I don't even have a house phone anymore, just a cell phone.

7. I hate confrontation. I will, however, confront you if you verbally attack or in any way go after my children. If you attack me, I will most likely curl up into a figurative ball and cry a lot. I don't like getting zinged and I won't zing you. It's not in my nature.

8. I am not the same person I was when I left home at 18 to go to college. Why do you think that I am? Have you grown and matured? Guess what- so have I.

9. I'm a Twilight fan. Have been for years. Again, don't judge.

10. I am a nice person, a fun person, if you get to know me. I have my quirks-don't we all? I'll accept yours and you accept mine.

Here ends my quick start guide.