Saturday, May 27, 2006

MONDAY IS MEMORIAL DAY!!!


Old Guard, New Veterans Help Us Honor the Fallen

Since 1948, soldiers of the elite 3rd U.S. Infantry Regiment, known as the Old Guard, have honored those who died in service to our country with an annual "Flags In" ceremony at Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia.

On the Thursday prior to Memorial Day, every available soldier in the 3rd U.S. Infantry Regiment participates in the event by placing an American flag in front of more than 220,000 grave sites. Flags also are placed at the Tomb of the Unknowns by the Tomb Sentinels, and at the cemetery's Columbarium where cremated remains are interred. The soldiers complete the process in three hours.

Company E of the 3rd U.S. Infantry Regiment honors its fallen comrades 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. They are the Tomb Sentinels, volunteers who undergo a lengthy indoctrination of educational and military preparation in order to earn the honor of a "walk."
The walk
A walk occurs between guard changes at the Tomb of the Unknowns where soldiers dressed in impeccable uniforms patrol in a cadence of 90 steps per minute. Each walk lasts 30 minutes in summer and one hour in winter and during evening patrols.

As a kid, I learned to respect those who serve in the military and to honor my country. Every school day, I recited the pledge. I learned the lyrics to the "Star Spangled Banner." My parents hung Old Glory from a pole attached to a pecan tree on patriotic holidays. Songs like "America, the Beautiful" often made me cry.

My sixth-grade music class performed a pageant designed for waving flags and hailing freedom. Thanks to one of those tunes, I can still sing the states in alphabetical order.
It wasn't until I had children I experienced that pang of patriotism that comes when you realize those who fought and died in service to our country were someone's son or daughter. Until you consider the potential sacrifice of your own flesh, the selflessness of military servicemen and women doesn't really hit home.

Randy and Debbie Rice of Oloh came close to knowing that loss. Their son, Lance Cpl. Aaron Rice serves with the Marine Reserve. Only 21 when he deployed to Iraq with the Ohio-based 3rd Battalion, 25th Marines, Aaron suffered numerous injuries and lost his left leg when a mine blast ripped through his Humvee while on a routine patrol. In the Dec. 12, 2005, issue of Sports Illustrated, S.L. Price wrote of Aaron and several other Iraq War veterans who have lost limbs. They ran in the 2005 Army Ten-Miler in Washington, D.C., on heroic determination.

I remember Aaron and his twin brother, Ryan, who joined the Marines exactly one year after Aaron. The Rice family of seven lived behind us in a rental house while they built a dream home. The boys once stood in my kitchen while Aaron delivered a persuasive soliloquy on how right it would be for them to baby-sit my son and daughter. The young men were 13 going on 35. I can still see them strong, smart and handsome, destined to be great leaders. My son credits them with being two of his favorite role models.

In the magazine photo of Aaron with his prosthetic leg, I see a compelling composite of those we remember on Memorial Day. Aaron and his fellow soldiers are the ones who remind us with living courage the significance of paying homage. It is our chance to acknowledge those who put their lives on the line in defense of democracy, freedom and the inalienable rights of humans everywhere. They are the Americans who make our country one worthy of honor.

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

Mr. Gray Keeps Dreams Alive

Patrick Gray makes teaching feel like a good thing. I approached him at the end of the semester, requesting he show me the ropes.

One of my assignments as a student in the Teach Mississippi Institute for teacher certification requires 30 hours of classroom observation. Mr. Gray graciously took on yet another student, this middle-aged mother of two who is beginning a career in education.

I learned soon enough why the kids call him "awesome." Mr. Gray and his eighth-grade English and history students showed me the process of taking the Mississippi Curriculum Test that is administered each year to gauge the students' progress in math, language and reading.

They finished up the year with a lesson about the Kansas-Nebraska Act and the dramatic events leading up to the Civil War, as well as a deep discussion of the proper identification and use of adverbs.

Throughout the lessons, the students voiced concerns and shared ideas, respectfully and often humorously. As dry as grammar can be, Mr. Gray made it worthy of attention.

One morning, the teacher corrected a young man's "I did good" with an "I did well." The student grinned broadly and announced, "Sir, I did well. And I want to do well, just like you." His words echoed those of Mr. Gray when he shared some of his valuable teacher insight with me.

"Model the behaviors you expect from them," he advised. He does just that. Of course, I'm seeing the product of nine months of instruction and behavior modification. Having been in classrooms at the beginning of the year, I marvel at how teachers can take each group and mold them into obedient, responsive, enlightened individuals in spite of the efforts of some to remain completely noncompliant.

When I was growing up, I was a good student. I minded my teachers, did my homework and studied. But I had parents who bolstered me, encouraging my every attempt to make the most of my education. A lot of students do not.

One of the things I learned by getting to talk with Mr. Gray's students is that plenty of kids learn in spite of what must feel like insurmountable obstacles. I would think having a teacher who cares would go a long way toward a kid wanting to do more than just get by.

Teenagers like those in eighth grade still have a lot to learn, although many will attempt to convince you otherwise. They judge each other pretty harshly at times and offer some colorful commentary on least-favorite teachers. They haven't realized these are some of the best years of their lives. It can seem lackluster, but from this observer's point of view, the potential residing in each one of those desks is nothing less than stunning.

Martin Luther King Jr. had a dream that his four children would "one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character."

Watching and listening to Mr. Gray's students, I see the dream percolating, wanting to be a reality. I hear it in his voice, carried with the confidence of a well-educated man and steeped in the warmth of sincerity. I see it in his quick smile and ready wit, in the presence of a teacher who understands that his is an incredible responsibility.

But most of all, I see it in the content of his character, that undeniable ability to inspire others simply by being the best he can be.

Is it any wonder that just last week, Oak Grove Middle School voted him "Teacher of the Year?" Thanks to teachers like Mr. Gray, we are reminded how important it is to keep all our children's dreams alive.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

When the Sky Was Falling, Mom Was There

In the time I have known her, which is as long as I have been in the world, she has endured some challenges. For instance, when I arrived in 1964, she received an infant far removed from the Gerber baby. My dad admits thanking God for a healthy baby, in spite of my debut as a ball of red-faced discontent. The color faded, my attitude improved and they took me home. Ever since, I have known her as "Mom."

She had to leave her home in the Delta, a place that is foreign to me but remains special to her. Elvis once played across the railroad tracks from her house when she was a teen and he was a rock 'n' roll novice.

"I wouldn't walk across the street to see him," she said. I think it's a shame she missed that. We once watched an Elvis TV special together. He sang from Hawaii in bell bottoms and sideburns. She obviously had changed her mind about Elvis. Her smile said it all.

Married to a college schoolteacher, she marked time in semesters, summer sessions and night school. For six years, I had her all to myself. I remember homemade birthday cakes with pink and white roses; dresses sewn from Simplicity patterns and Captain Kangaroo.

Then, she learned she was pregnant again. Just weeks from her due date, Dr. Gaddy surprised her with news it would be twin boys. I have tried to imagine the emotions that erupt when realizing you will need not one, but two of everything, including more than twice as much faith in the premise that what doesn't kill you will make you stronger.

My baby brothers tried to kill her, unintentionally, of course. They never slept at the same time. When one was dry, the other was wet. They seemed to drain bottles and dirty cloth diapers by the thousands. While still in the crib, the boys developed thrush with seeping sores in their mouths and raging fevers and unspeakable material flowing from raw rear ends. My mom called Dr. Murphy, sobbing.

"All their teeth have fallen out!" she cried. The pediatrician calmed her. My mom administered ice packs to swollen gums as directed, only to see that nothing was lost except her last nerve.
My brothers also worked in concert to keep my mom's home life interesting. Together, they defaced a newly-upholstered red vinyl sofa. They secretly ate cat food and tried to swallow pocket change.

One rain-soaked afternoon, they commandeered the kitchen door, which led to the great beyond of our neighborhood. My mom still turns white when she recalls the terror of racing past overflowing ditches in search of her babies. God's grace took the form of two toddlers that day. They sat oblivious and completely safe in a rock garden as my mom's sky was falling all around her.

And then there are the minor trials of living with a family of five and a long lineage of pets. She dipped dogs, rescued cats and vacuumed tons of fur. In her quest to remain fashionable, she allowed my father to change her from brunette to blonde and to pierce her ears. Green hair and cockeyed ear holes pretty much eliminated my dad from any future makeover attempts.

My hormonal teens and first real boyfriend tested the limits of her tolerance. And as tough as it was to raise two boys in synchrony, seeing them leave home gave her time and space that echoed with a stunning "Who am I?"

She is an exceptional woman and mother. They say the hardest part of any job is showing up. She has done so, without fail, in a way that makes saying "Happy Mother's Day" an easy and heartfelt exclamation of love, respect and awe.

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

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Thinking of Julia and What Might Have Been

High school graduation beckons again. We alumni tend to reflect on our own commencement, back when we still claimed loads of energy and a million tomorrows. We remember friends, too, and what might have been.

Julia moved to my hometown when we were in middle school. She came from Norfolk, Va. She accused us of butchering the name with our deeply Southern twang.

Julia's family confused me. Their habits at home were nothing like the way my family did things. I witnessed raw arguments that made me squirm. Yet, they seemed to recover, laughing and joking in unspoken forgiveness.

Julia drew like a professional artist. There was an edge to her sketches that reflected an ability to chew on reality and spit it out in such a way that something beautiful remained. She read voraciously. She listened to lots of Rod Stewart.

To be on her good side was to have a champion for your every cause. To be on her bad side was to invite the devil to a dueling match. No one could defend a point better than Julia. Whenever she wore the perfectly tailored wool suit sewn by her mother, Julia embodied the living potential of a top-notch lawyer. If you didn't love her, you feared her completely.

She appeared destined for the Supreme Court. She applied herself to her studies and to having a great time. Simply being around Julia made you feel as if you could soak up some of the excess and use it for your own pursuits.

That's why what happened to her leaves me confounded. Her tragedy makes me want to challenge these masses of youth to go in earnest - be determined to make the most of what they've got, no matter what.

During and after high school, Julia waited tables at a steakhouse. She soon landed the position of manager. She attended college classes as she could afford them. In a Mardi Gras parade, she rode with coworkers, tossing beads from a float. Then, with the kind of surreal misfortune that defies logic, Julia fell from the back of a huge plastic cow as the procession advanced. She struck her head on the asphalt and suffered a debilitating concussion.

In the years following, Julia tried to prevail over her disability. Seizures and Phenobarbital prevented her from driving. The epilepsy from her head injury interfered with her freedom and independence.

The one time I saw her after the accident, she seemed driven as ever. But, her heavy reliance on others to help her had dulled her spark. She seemed tired and scattered, unsure of what to do with herself.

I can't remember who told me that Julia had taken her own life. I was a junior in college, thinking of my own future. I do remember the shock and overwhelming sense of confusion as to how this could happen to one of the most capable women I knew. Why had someone who offered so much to this crazy world been dealt such a losing hand?

Life is like that, full of inexplicable complications and obstacles. What happened to Julia could have happened to anyone. It's a lesson that if learned early can make the difference between spending your days chasing lackluster opportunities or listening to that voice that urges you to thrive and to push the limits of your comfort zone.

No one can speak for Julia. That voice was silenced more than 20 years ago. But the sound of hope resonates more loudly this time of year than any other. That is when our graduates speak of the future and the future answers not with a promise of success, but with an open door to those beautiful and challenging tomorrows.

Monday, May 01, 2006


Teen Talk Could Replace Fossil Fuels

Whenever gas prices rise, so does the discussion of alternative fuel sources. The threat of depleting our crude oil stores makes gas-guzzling humans consider the serious need to harness other forms of energy. After spending the better part of a weekend on a youth retreat with 22 teenagers, I may have discovered a new source of power.

Middle school girls feature a unique and tireless capacity for perpetual motion. Most of them never stop moving their mouths. Wire one up to an SUV, and you could drive across Texas with one pack of gum or a serious conversation on any number of topics from Ipods to college to cute boys.

My own daughter is twelve. We have marveled at her ability to talk incessantly. When she was a baby, she said her first words at six months and could speak in complete sentences within hours. Her pediatrician warned me.

“Girls start talking earlier than boys,” he said. “They have so much more to say, so they need the head start. And they don’t stop. They don’t ever, ever stop.” I knew he had daughters without even asking. The scar tissue on his ears said it all.

Our son, who said enough as a toddler to let us know he was hungry, sleepy or tired of listening to his sister continues to be a man of relatively few words much of the time. In the 10 minutes it takes to travel from school to home, my daughter has informed me in exquisite detail everything that transpired during the course of the day.

Sometimes I feel I was there in the flesh, actually witnessing Susie in her pink Gap sweatshirt, French-braided hair and gold-glittered flip flops while she chewed out Cynthia in her rhinestone studded cropped jeans, white fuzzy tank top and cherry red nail polish with matching earrings for dissing her in front of Jack, the boy with perfect hair who tells THE best jokes about how grown-ups are so very, very lame.

I am female and I can talk. Get me on a subject about which I am passionate and I can go on and on until the cows come home and the chickens roost and my audience has long ago left me yammering away at nothing more than a glazed expression. So I understand teenaged girls’ ability to flap their jaws even when no one is listening. It just seems such a vast waste of viable energy.

When we first departed for our weekend getaway to Twin Lakes, I hauled a group of boys in the van and was surprised at their conversation. There was some. They talked a lot, in fact, about sports and music and food. They told stories and jokes and laughed. It was interesting to note they took the time to breathe between sentences and the overall noise level remained pretty much in a conversational tone.

After we stopped for food, the boys traded spots with a group of girls who entered the vehicle seemingly oblivious to their change of venue. One gal shared a most imaginative tale at top volume that could have put “The Never Ending Story” to shame. It included everything from mermaids to Jesus to a musical interlude courtesy of a sing-along with Shania Twain’s “I Feel Like a Woman.”

In defense of flapping jaws, teenaged girls have a lot to say about things that matter. Contrary to what movies and sitcoms portray, it’s not all about who’s dating who and what to wear. They share insight beyond their years when discussing dreams and visions for their future. They are smart and clever and full of potential to run a world increasingly influenced by the resourcefulness and character of women.

Whether scientists ever find a way to use those mouths in motion as an energy source or not, these teenaged girls offer one of the most valuable resources we have. They are talented in ways that make a middle-aged “girl” like me feel good about what’s on the horizon. And so do the boys. Spending time with them is both invigorating and comforting. Only my ears, it seems, could use a retreat of their own.