Recently my students turned in their culminating project for the sophomore year at Norman North: the Autobiography. It really is a huge assignment, but in the end they either really learn to appreciate it (and themselves) or they just throw something together without really getting the main idea of the project. Which just happens to be spending time on your own and discovering, through writing, who you are and maybe just who you would like to be.
In preparation for this huge endeavor I was doing a lesson on one of the assignments with my students. The assignment was to write a "Where I'm From" poem based on George Ella Lyon's poem of the same title. I have always believed in giving the kids an example of what I want from them, and this was no exception. Plus, this ended up being very meaningful to me, not just because my students appreciated seeing a more personal side of me, but because it was almost painful to write. I find the word "home" is always synonymous with Grandpa lately, which just goes to show how much I really miss him. My example...
Where I’m From
I’m from the basketball court, Crayola markers and Crystal Lite Sugar Free Pink Lemonade.
I’m from the house with a misplaced back door and a front door that never sees visitors. From the wide open sky painted by sunsets every evening and scattered with stars every night. From rain scented leaves after a spring thunderstorm.
I am from the mighty Cottonwood and the delicate iris, the hardy buffalo grass that always perseveres.
I’m from Christmas Eve and Rudolph and stubbornness, from Bieberle’s and Musil’s, and a love so strong no tragedy can break us.
I am from the need to always be right and the need to please.
From “you better put that lip back in or a bird will come and poop on it” and say your prayers every night.
I am from rosaries and stained glass. From “Our Father, who art in Heaven” and sit in the 2nd pew from the back every Sunday.
I’m from the Bible Belt, the windswept plains where everything is flat and the deer and the antelope roam. From German Catholics. Steak cooked rare and spaghetti squash.
From the “I remember the time I…” and usually it was true, the Grandpa whose story was always better than yours, and the home-cooked food that said, “I love you” with every bite.
I am from cracking photo albums decorated in 70s floral prints, from faded photos full of finger smudges, from faces smiling through a film of plastic because we can’t let go.
I’m from them, but I’m also from me.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
Dear Grandpa
Today marks the one year anniversary of the day Grandpa Bieberle made his journey to Heaven. And even though I miss him terribly, I'm so thankful he is in a better place and no longer hurting. He's also in very good company...and I'm sure there's never a dull moment between the 3 of them!
Last year I was asked to write a speech for the service the night before his funeral (the Rosary or wake, whichever you prefer to call it). In memory of my Grandpa, I wanted to post that speech. I only wrote it a couple hours before giving it...but I think it was the spirit of the words more than the words themselves that were important that night.
Love you always Grandpa!
The definition of a farm reads as a tract of land, usually with a house, barn, and silo, on which crops and often livestock are raised for livelihood. And my farm has some of those things and is used, in principle, for that purpose, but no dictionary definition of a farm matches mine. On sticky, summer evenings you can hear the crack of a bat ring throughout the yard of my farm. If the batter is lucky enough to get a good hit they race around the rocks, or bases, and slide home. Chilly, winter nights at my farm bring booming laughter that echoes through the dining room between multiple games of Skip-Bo and hot homemade popcorn. My farm isn’t a place full of livestock and machines. My farm is a home full of people, love and laughter. And most importantly, the man who started it all…Grandpa.
To try use a serious tone throughout this whole speech would be a lie, because Grandpa was hardly a serious person. Although there was a serious and solemn farmer in his heart, he’d much rather be smiling and laughing. My farm is full of laughter. And usually by the time we’re done laughing we can’t even remember what started it. But I think that’s the best part of my family. It never did and never will matter what makes us laugh or makes us happy, as long as there’s joy in what we do. I remember many car rides where something, usually just a word or something Grandpa said, got the whole vehicle giggling and before long we were either choking or tearing up from laughing so hard. This seemed to always happen during nights of cards as well. I think every time we played Skip-Bo we had to remind Grandpa that you could only have 4 discard piles and that you could, in fact, put all your 12’s in one pile…not in 3. I think our advice on the rules was conveniently ignored, because Grandpa always played the game according to his own rules…and then got that goofy grin on his face when he won.
My farm is a safe haven for all of us. And no one looked out for his grandkids more than Grandpa. Even if most of the time we thought he was trying to ruin our fun, it’s clear that he only had our best interests at heart. When I was in junior high the farm received its first four-wheeler. A grandparents’ nightmare (although there is a story of Grandpa secretly enjoying the four-wheeler…a story that ends in a flipped four-wheeler and surgery…). Marshall, Amanda, Jennifer and I were more than excited about this new toy. It was like a new bike, except bigger, faster, and no pedaling required! Grandpa quickly banned us from riding it on the “super-busy” sand roads, which left us the driveway. This became boring fast and so we mapped out a new four-wheeler track through the yard. The track was drawn and made all before Grandpa realized we were driving that 1,000 lb machine through his precious grass. I think he endured that torture for a whole afternoon before we were banned from the yard as well. Looking back and realizing how young we all were I’m amazed he even let me drive the four-wheeler, especially with the younger kids riding.
As we were remembering Grandpa I realized that almost all our memories involve wheels. When we were little those wheels were a golden tan color and had a gun rack in the back. And whenever those wheels pulled out of the driveway it was a race to see which grandkid could get out the door fast enough to receive the honor of going with Grandpa, even if it was just to check his bossies. And even though I was scared of the cows, I was usually the one that got to the truck first. I don’t know why Grandpa bothered ever taking me, since I refused to roll down the windows if we were within 20 feet of a cow, even if it was 100 degrees outside. And if he “let” me ride in the back, I sat in the very middle right next to the back window. As far away from the cows as I could get, while he yelled, “Come Boss!” and counted.
He helped teach Marshall and I to drive as we grew up. And anyone that has ever been the driver with Grandpa as the passenger knows how cautious he insisted on being. He had this sneaky little way of peeking at the odometer and casually asking, “How fast you going?” when he knew good and well what the answer was. It was his little way of saying “Maybe you should slow down.” He also stated on one vacation to Branson with Karen, Amanda, Jennifer, and Grandma that if he ever won the lottery he would buy a Hummer.
My farm is full of tradition. Times change and people grow older but the traditions instilled at the farm make it feel like time can magically stop when we’re together. Christmas will always be the most valued tradition at my farm. Grandpa never went with us to look for Rudolph; he was always on Santa-watching duty. And he was always ready for us to run back through the doors after, once again missing Santa but still finding our presents. It didn’t matter how many grandkids there were that year, Grandpa would protest that we opened presents too fast during the Santa presents and he couldn’t see what we were doing. And then proceed to hurry us along during the family presents, just in case we didn’t get done in enough time to get ready for Midnight Mass. Even if it was only 9:30.
My farm is full of overwhelming support for each of us grandkids. Grandpa was a bulldog, a leopard, and a thunderbird. A black and gold hat could quickly be exchanged for one with blue and white. Teams and colors didn’t really matter, as long as his grandkid was competing. He was always ready to go to Amanda’s long powerlifting meets and she remembers one specifically where he pulled her to the side while the girl with the winning weight was taking her turn and joked that he would go and take some of the weight off that girls bar so Amanda would win if she wanted him to. He was a dedicated Leopard as well. LaCrosse became almost a second home for Grandma and Grandpa during Marshall’s 4 years of high school. I think he saw a lot of himself in Marshall, which made him extra proud of his grandson. He always told us stories from his football days and the time he hit a baseball over the roof of the school here at Holy Name. Anyone that spent a few minutes with Grandpa would hear a few stories or get an update on Marshall’s football or whatever new sport Jerred had been trying. And if you were looking for him on summer evenings it was mostly likely that he would be at Chelsey or Jerred’s baseball games. What a blessing it has been for all of us kids to live so close Grandma and Grandpa. They don’t have to worry about traveling to see us and we get to spend invaluable time as a family.
Even though many of my memories of Grandpa are light-hearted and cheerful, there is still that hard-working, dedicated farmer with dirty hands at his core. When he wasn’t Grandpa, he was a diligent worker, whether it be in the oil field or on the tractor. It was that work ethic, those bare hands, that built my farm, that built the stout hearts of his kids and the loyal hearts of his grandkids. His work ethic built the traditions at my farm, built a safe haven for all that are a part of his family, and after all that hard work was done, my farm was full of laughter. American journalist, Chuck Palahniuk once said, “We all die. The goal isn’t to live forever, the goal is to create something that will.” And Grandpa did. Thank you, Grandpa, for my farm. For our farm.
Last year I was asked to write a speech for the service the night before his funeral (the Rosary or wake, whichever you prefer to call it). In memory of my Grandpa, I wanted to post that speech. I only wrote it a couple hours before giving it...but I think it was the spirit of the words more than the words themselves that were important that night.
Love you always Grandpa!
The definition of a farm reads as a tract of land, usually with a house, barn, and silo, on which crops and often livestock are raised for livelihood. And my farm has some of those things and is used, in principle, for that purpose, but no dictionary definition of a farm matches mine. On sticky, summer evenings you can hear the crack of a bat ring throughout the yard of my farm. If the batter is lucky enough to get a good hit they race around the rocks, or bases, and slide home. Chilly, winter nights at my farm bring booming laughter that echoes through the dining room between multiple games of Skip-Bo and hot homemade popcorn. My farm isn’t a place full of livestock and machines. My farm is a home full of people, love and laughter. And most importantly, the man who started it all…Grandpa.
To try use a serious tone throughout this whole speech would be a lie, because Grandpa was hardly a serious person. Although there was a serious and solemn farmer in his heart, he’d much rather be smiling and laughing. My farm is full of laughter. And usually by the time we’re done laughing we can’t even remember what started it. But I think that’s the best part of my family. It never did and never will matter what makes us laugh or makes us happy, as long as there’s joy in what we do. I remember many car rides where something, usually just a word or something Grandpa said, got the whole vehicle giggling and before long we were either choking or tearing up from laughing so hard. This seemed to always happen during nights of cards as well. I think every time we played Skip-Bo we had to remind Grandpa that you could only have 4 discard piles and that you could, in fact, put all your 12’s in one pile…not in 3. I think our advice on the rules was conveniently ignored, because Grandpa always played the game according to his own rules…and then got that goofy grin on his face when he won.
My farm is a safe haven for all of us. And no one looked out for his grandkids more than Grandpa. Even if most of the time we thought he was trying to ruin our fun, it’s clear that he only had our best interests at heart. When I was in junior high the farm received its first four-wheeler. A grandparents’ nightmare (although there is a story of Grandpa secretly enjoying the four-wheeler…a story that ends in a flipped four-wheeler and surgery…). Marshall, Amanda, Jennifer and I were more than excited about this new toy. It was like a new bike, except bigger, faster, and no pedaling required! Grandpa quickly banned us from riding it on the “super-busy” sand roads, which left us the driveway. This became boring fast and so we mapped out a new four-wheeler track through the yard. The track was drawn and made all before Grandpa realized we were driving that 1,000 lb machine through his precious grass. I think he endured that torture for a whole afternoon before we were banned from the yard as well. Looking back and realizing how young we all were I’m amazed he even let me drive the four-wheeler, especially with the younger kids riding.
As we were remembering Grandpa I realized that almost all our memories involve wheels. When we were little those wheels were a golden tan color and had a gun rack in the back. And whenever those wheels pulled out of the driveway it was a race to see which grandkid could get out the door fast enough to receive the honor of going with Grandpa, even if it was just to check his bossies. And even though I was scared of the cows, I was usually the one that got to the truck first. I don’t know why Grandpa bothered ever taking me, since I refused to roll down the windows if we were within 20 feet of a cow, even if it was 100 degrees outside. And if he “let” me ride in the back, I sat in the very middle right next to the back window. As far away from the cows as I could get, while he yelled, “Come Boss!” and counted.
He helped teach Marshall and I to drive as we grew up. And anyone that has ever been the driver with Grandpa as the passenger knows how cautious he insisted on being. He had this sneaky little way of peeking at the odometer and casually asking, “How fast you going?” when he knew good and well what the answer was. It was his little way of saying “Maybe you should slow down.” He also stated on one vacation to Branson with Karen, Amanda, Jennifer, and Grandma that if he ever won the lottery he would buy a Hummer.
My farm is full of tradition. Times change and people grow older but the traditions instilled at the farm make it feel like time can magically stop when we’re together. Christmas will always be the most valued tradition at my farm. Grandpa never went with us to look for Rudolph; he was always on Santa-watching duty. And he was always ready for us to run back through the doors after, once again missing Santa but still finding our presents. It didn’t matter how many grandkids there were that year, Grandpa would protest that we opened presents too fast during the Santa presents and he couldn’t see what we were doing. And then proceed to hurry us along during the family presents, just in case we didn’t get done in enough time to get ready for Midnight Mass. Even if it was only 9:30.
My farm is full of overwhelming support for each of us grandkids. Grandpa was a bulldog, a leopard, and a thunderbird. A black and gold hat could quickly be exchanged for one with blue and white. Teams and colors didn’t really matter, as long as his grandkid was competing. He was always ready to go to Amanda’s long powerlifting meets and she remembers one specifically where he pulled her to the side while the girl with the winning weight was taking her turn and joked that he would go and take some of the weight off that girls bar so Amanda would win if she wanted him to. He was a dedicated Leopard as well. LaCrosse became almost a second home for Grandma and Grandpa during Marshall’s 4 years of high school. I think he saw a lot of himself in Marshall, which made him extra proud of his grandson. He always told us stories from his football days and the time he hit a baseball over the roof of the school here at Holy Name. Anyone that spent a few minutes with Grandpa would hear a few stories or get an update on Marshall’s football or whatever new sport Jerred had been trying. And if you were looking for him on summer evenings it was mostly likely that he would be at Chelsey or Jerred’s baseball games. What a blessing it has been for all of us kids to live so close Grandma and Grandpa. They don’t have to worry about traveling to see us and we get to spend invaluable time as a family.
Even though many of my memories of Grandpa are light-hearted and cheerful, there is still that hard-working, dedicated farmer with dirty hands at his core. When he wasn’t Grandpa, he was a diligent worker, whether it be in the oil field or on the tractor. It was that work ethic, those bare hands, that built my farm, that built the stout hearts of his kids and the loyal hearts of his grandkids. His work ethic built the traditions at my farm, built a safe haven for all that are a part of his family, and after all that hard work was done, my farm was full of laughter. American journalist, Chuck Palahniuk once said, “We all die. The goal isn’t to live forever, the goal is to create something that will.” And Grandpa did. Thank you, Grandpa, for my farm. For our farm.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Mockingjay
The Hunger Games Trilogy. Truly one of the first series that has grabbed my soul since Harry Potter. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve read many books that I’ve enjoyed since HP 7 hit the shelves, but none that have comprised all the elements I believe make a story that will last: characters I CARE about, the inability to put the book down, a connection to the “real” world… Suzanne Collins accomplished this with a post-apocalyptic tale about a dystopia society that actually mirrors a civilization from 45 B.C.
Connection to the real world? Check. I kept feeling a sense of déjà vu while reading this book, since my sophomore English class is starting Julius Caesar at the same time. I’ve been doing research on my own and reading JC in my spare time…just to familiarize myself with the material before my kids get to it. And after I finished “Mockingjay” I kept thinking to myself, “Now wait…what did I just read???” The most bizarre aspect was on Monday a student came up to me after class and asked if there was any connection to the world Collins had created and the acienct Rome we were studying, besides the obvious names (Plutarch, Cinna, Portia, Octavia{us}, Flavia{us}, etc.) The other connections are a blog post of their own…so on we go.
Like most readers, in order for me to classify a book as “good” I need to feel a great connection to one or more of the characters. Collins accomplished this. At the end of “Mockinjay” I’m still trying to decide how I feel about Katniss, but that right there tells me her character is meaningful. I can’t figure out if want to commend her for her endurance, or denounce her for her weakness. Or a little of both. My initial reaction was to condemn the girl from District 12 for her lack of “acceptance of responsibility,” as it were. For me, Katniss spent too much time wallowing in self-pity and morphling and not enough time taking the problems Snow dealt her and facing them head on. I wanted her to take charge. To actually BE the Mockingjay directly, not just indirectly. I understand, of course, that this would have made the story much less interesting and on further reflection I’ve decided this all stems from my hatred of weakness in my own life. Yes, I know weaknesses are not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but I’ve NEVER been one to show them. It makes my stomach roil to see Katniss so passive about showing hers. With talking about them…with breaking down. Which brings to the part of this series I was most able to connect with—being broken. Halfway through “Mockingjay” Katniss realizes how Snow is using Peeta against her. It’s at this point in the novel that what little spark she has left struggles against a wave of angst, hurt, yearning, despair...Struggles to avoid being snuffed out. And it’s not just this new realization that causes such a dramatic
change in our Katniss. It’s the realization that everything she has done or tried to do for GOOD has ultimately been turned against her. Every decision she thought was her own was actually orchestrated by some unseen hand. She even begins to question the validity of her emotions. The scene in the bunker after her realization and the conversation with Finnick are so raw for me. Katniss describes herself that night:
I’m not flailing now, as my muscles are rigid with the tension of holding myself together. The pain over my heart returns, and from it I imagine tiny fissures spreading out into my body. Though my torso, down my arms and legs, over my face, leaving it crisscrossed with cracks. One good jolt of a bunker missile and I could shatter into strange razor-sharp shards. (154)
I get it. Dear Katniss, I understand. Because Broken and I are old friends. And this is where my sympathy for Katniss comes in. It’s not until this scene. These words. When she actually, metamorphically, “breaks” that I get it. I’ve been there. We probably all have at one time or another. And granted..…my encounter with Broken lasted MANY more years than it did for Katniss, but I get it. I get her. I understand her motives. That need to do something, ANYTHING, just so you don’t have to feel so broken. So nothing. Finnick gives Katniss the best advice, in my opinion. He says,
“Better not to give in to it. It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart” (156).
I couldn’t have said it better myself. It’s so true. Once you’re gone, finding your way back is like swimming in a sea of morphling.
The best part about the ending of this novel is that Katniss won her OWN war. Yes, we care that Snow and Coin are both gone. We care that the Hunger Games are no longer taking place, we care that Haymitch will always be there for Katniss and that Gale retreats to District 2 because he knows Katniss will never truly be his. BUT the most important battle won is Katniss’ inner conflict. While she may never be fully free of her demons, she has mended. And she lives.
As with any book I love, I will be interested to see how the movie adaptation follows the plot. This is complex story with some gruesome topics. In order for the full impact of the story to be realized I hope director Gary Ross delves into the hard subject matter.
Connection to the real world? Check. I kept feeling a sense of déjà vu while reading this book, since my sophomore English class is starting Julius Caesar at the same time. I’ve been doing research on my own and reading JC in my spare time…just to familiarize myself with the material before my kids get to it. And after I finished “Mockingjay” I kept thinking to myself, “Now wait…what did I just read???” The most bizarre aspect was on Monday a student came up to me after class and asked if there was any connection to the world Collins had created and the acienct Rome we were studying, besides the obvious names (Plutarch, Cinna, Portia, Octavia{us}, Flavia{us}, etc.) The other connections are a blog post of their own…so on we go.
Like most readers, in order for me to classify a book as “good” I need to feel a great connection to one or more of the characters. Collins accomplished this. At the end of “Mockinjay” I’m still trying to decide how I feel about Katniss, but that right there tells me her character is meaningful. I can’t figure out if want to commend her for her endurance, or denounce her for her weakness. Or a little of both. My initial reaction was to condemn the girl from District 12 for her lack of “acceptance of responsibility,” as it were. For me, Katniss spent too much time wallowing in self-pity and morphling and not enough time taking the problems Snow dealt her and facing them head on. I wanted her to take charge. To actually BE the Mockingjay directly, not just indirectly. I understand, of course, that this would have made the story much less interesting and on further reflection I’ve decided this all stems from my hatred of weakness in my own life. Yes, I know weaknesses are not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but I’ve NEVER been one to show them. It makes my stomach roil to see Katniss so passive about showing hers. With talking about them…with breaking down. Which brings to the part of this series I was most able to connect with—being broken. Halfway through “Mockingjay” Katniss realizes how Snow is using Peeta against her. It’s at this point in the novel that what little spark she has left struggles against a wave of angst, hurt, yearning, despair...Struggles to avoid being snuffed out. And it’s not just this new realization that causes such a dramatic
I’m not flailing now, as my muscles are rigid with the tension of holding myself together. The pain over my heart returns, and from it I imagine tiny fissures spreading out into my body. Though my torso, down my arms and legs, over my face, leaving it crisscrossed with cracks. One good jolt of a bunker missile and I could shatter into strange razor-sharp shards. (154)
I get it. Dear Katniss, I understand. Because Broken and I are old friends. And this is where my sympathy for Katniss comes in. It’s not until this scene. These words. When she actually, metamorphically, “breaks” that I get it. I’ve been there. We probably all have at one time or another. And granted..…my encounter with Broken lasted MANY more years than it did for Katniss, but I get it. I get her. I understand her motives. That need to do something, ANYTHING, just so you don’t have to feel so broken. So nothing. Finnick gives Katniss the best advice, in my opinion. He says,
“Better not to give in to it. It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart” (156).
I couldn’t have said it better myself. It’s so true. Once you’re gone, finding your way back is like swimming in a sea of morphling.
The best part about the ending of this novel is that Katniss won her OWN war. Yes, we care that Snow and Coin are both gone. We care that the Hunger Games are no longer taking place, we care that Haymitch will always be there for Katniss and that Gale retreats to District 2 because he knows Katniss will never truly be his. BUT the most important battle won is Katniss’ inner conflict. While she may never be fully free of her demons, she has mended. And she lives.
As with any book I love, I will be interested to see how the movie adaptation follows the plot. This is complex story with some gruesome topics. In order for the full impact of the story to be realized I hope director Gary Ross delves into the hard subject matter.
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