Teacher, teacher. . .

NBC has been touting"Education Nation" this past week,broadcasting news about the current state of our nation's schools and talking a great deal about the importance of good teachers. Although my school days, and that of my daughter and even my grandson, are long since over, my granddaughter-inlaw, Amy, is a third grade teacher in Jacksonville,FL, so I found myself paying close attention to what they were saying. Over and over again they talked about the difference a good teacher can make.

I know one thing for sure. The kids in Amy's class are lucky kids. Her school apparently realizes it as well because she was recently a finalist in the Teacher Of The Year awards. I am well aware that Amy often reaches into her own pocket to buy colored markers and various items for the science, math and social studies projects she plans for the kids in her class. Apparently, most caring teachers find themself long on ideas and short on funds these days.

I know what the kids are doing because Amy writes a blog called "31 Thrilling Thinkers" (there are 31 students and two teachers in this class)that goes via the internet to the parents of all her kids. I'm grandmothered in. By the end of the term I feel like I know each of the children in the class via the still photos and videos that she films, captions and posts. Imagine how fabulous this must be for the parents. . some of whom are in the service overseas. . to be able to actually see their sons and daughters working on the incredibly creative projects that Amy finds/thinks up, to illustrate a subject they are studying at the time.

If they study American Indians in Social Studies they make sand paintings and create Navaho-style arrowheads. The kids get really involved in the science projects, currently they are growing stuff and carrying out all sorts of complex experiments. I never cease to be amazed at the creativity that these kids show.

Not all the projects are so serious. Recently the kids were told to draw a picture of their two teachers. . just one catch. . they had to use their non-writing hand. The photo on the left is "Mrs. Anker by Emily". The one on the right is just in case you don't know what Amy really looks like. Bet you never had a teacher that pretty when you were in school.

Flash forward. . .think back

I signed up to attend a workshop on "Writing Flash Fiction" at Books & Books in Coral Gables on Saturday afternoon.For my non-Miami blog readers, Books & Books is a throwback to when book stores weren't called Borders and Barnes & Noble, but were warm, welcoming places where the owners knew your name.

There was a mixed bag of about 30 people in the workshop that was run by a successful young author named Michelle Richmond. Most were fairly mature although a young man who looked like a college student sat directly in front of me. In all truth, I had never heard of "Flash Fiction" which is described as an ultra-short story, under 750 words, containing A,B,C,D & E. . Action, Background, Conflict, Development and End. After reading and discussing several examples, Michelle put us to work writing.

First she told us she was going to call out a "thought" and we were to write our own take on that "thought" in the space of 30 to 60 seconds. First thought: "Think of something beautiful. . .then "Think of a sound". . . "Think of the future". . ."Think of a lie". . ."Think of a body part". . . "Think of a color". . . ."Think of the best food you ever ate". . ."Think of a promise you broke". . . "Think of a kitchen from your childhood". . ."Describe snow in 3 words".

What a fascinating exercise! I'm sitting here reading over my scribbles and it's amazing what jumps into your mind when you only have a minute to write and no idea what's coming next.

Another exercise that yielded really strange results started with instructions that "you have one minute to write down the names of everybody you have ever known!" The results were mystifying. . some people found themselves writing the names of grade school teachers. .others came up with childhood friends. . . I ended with a list of relatives that I haven't thought of in 60 or 70 years although I managed to throw in the names of two ex-husbands and my oldest friend Judy, her present husband and her ex. Don't ask me why. What really struck me as odd was that I started with my Mother and Father and didn't get to my daughter Andrea and my grandson Adam and his wife, Amy, until very near the end of the 60 seconds. Basically, in one minute I had journeyed back to my childhood and my 20's. Weird!

We didn't have time to think about it before we had to start writing, but I challenge each of you to grab pen and paper now and start writing names . . just be sure to stop at 60 seconds. I'd love to hear what each of you comes up with. . .bet you'll be as surprised as I was.
# # #

Reaching for the stars .. .

I just returned from spending the morning trying to make myself useful at the Wednesday morning session for vision impaired children, really babies, from 2 to 4 years old, at the Miami Lighthouse for the Blind. I am humbled by the courage of the Mothers that accompany these children, many with profoundly damaging birth defects, and awed by the loving care provided by the professionals who run the program and also visit the children in their homes.

Each session has a theme and today it was Stars. (Last week we did bubbles.) We begin by sitting on the floor in a circle on a colorful rug and sing "Good Morning" to each of the children and the adults and clap hands. I probably have the worst singing voice in the world, but I sing along and introduce my self when my turn comes. Today we also sang Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, and passed around a velvety soft stuffed star that the kids can hold and smell. Touching, smelling and tasting supply stimulation when there is no vision, and are a big part of our morning program. Some of the children have very low vision so bright colors and moving lights provide visual stimulation, and the room is full of toys and items especially selected for their ability to create a response.

While Isabella and Krizia are the truly inspiring professionals who really run the program, I learned today that Yaneth, whom I thought was also a pro because of the wonderful way she has with the children, is actually a senior at the University of Miami and the president of her sorority, Delta Gamma. She has made the Miami Lighthouse her sorority's personal project and the members raise money and volunteer on a regular basis. I'm impressed, guys.

As for me, I am getting to know the children. . .beautiful little Crystal Marie who was never supposed to survive infancy. . .sweet Allisio. .we all applaud and murmer "Good job" when he responds with a tiny hint of a smile and a widening of his eyes to a moving light. . . .active little Dino with his brand new eye glasses, the ones with the neon yellow rims, firmly affixed to his head. . .first time visitor, Alexa, who loved sprinkling colored sugar on bread stars. Isabella explained that they are working to get her ready to enter regular school even though she is legally blind.

The Miami Lighthouse today, under the direction of my friend and neighbor, Virginia Jacko, is the most amazing place. I am fascinated with the technology that abounds in every room of this bright and airy building. . .braille typewriters, computers that speak back to the user, a professionally equipped recording studio and a marvelous crafts workshop. In the summer, they run a kids camp that this year went kayaking for the first time.

If you can use a little inspiration, I recommend Wednesday morning at the Miami Lighthouse. You can join me in singing "Good morning to you". We could use some good voices, not to mention helping hands. # # #

Caption: Yaneth & Kristin help Alexa decorate her stars with colored sugar.

Grandma's on a roll. . . .

Three generations of the Spector/Anker family went bowling in Jacksonville Saturday afternoon. Grandma Jo (that's me), daughter Andrea, grandson Adam and Adam's wife, Amy.

The last time I picked up a bowling bowl has to be close to 50 years ago when I was a newcomer to South Florida and we belonged to the Bay Harbor Bowling League. If I remember correctly, I was a pretty respectable bowler in those days, snazzily decked out in a shirt that proclaimed "Joan" on the front and the league name on the back. Apparently, bowling is like bicycle riding. You never really forget how. Sort of.

My aim actually wasn't too bad. At least I can still see the pins at the end of the alley. That's a plus. It was the total lack of oomph as the ball left my hand and started down the alley that was the problem. As my daughter Andrea sweetly noted, by the time my ball finally reached the pins, it had forgetten the reason why it was there. The result was not exactly an impressive explosion of power, ala grandson Adam's succession of strikes, but rather a gentle journey guaranteed to do a minimum of damage to the pins and a maximum of damage to my score.

OK, so I didn't break 100, actually, I didn't break 80, but I managed to bowl two full games and still have strength to go shopping afterwards. I felt I deserved a handicap of at least 10 pins, considering my venerable age, but Adam wouldn't give an inch. So much for all those Dolphin games, Heat games and Panther games I took him to when he was a kid.

The Bowl America lanes where we played were much more colorful and comfortable than I remember about the alley where we bowled in the 60's, but the rental shoes were just as grungy. Yuk. Today's scores are totally computerized and show up in color overhead. In my case, not a good thing. I'm from the school where one member of the team was designated to sit at the little table facing the alley and write down the scores with pencil on a big paper grid. Oh well. Time marches on.

Game anyone???? I'll be glad to spot you a few pins.
# # #
Photo captions: #1 Grandma gets ready to roll. #2 Amy & Andrea watch Adam roll a strike.

The weather channel is out my window.. . .

It's 9:30 in the morning. I'm sitting at my computer and the view from my window is zero. Biscayne Bay is a blur and I can barely see the tops of the palm trees on the deck below. Tropical Storm Bonnie has come to call, and the electricity just blinked off for a second, making me wonder if I should get out some candles and check the batteries on my flashlight before I continue writing.

Bonnie is not a full fledged hurricane, thank goodness, but she's looking and sounding pretty ugly right about now and according to the TV, she's going to intensify as the day goes on. Our dinner plans at a fancy restaurant just went out the window. The new plans are for a pot luck dinner at the significant other's apartment with two other couples. One is in charge of vegetables. The other is bringing salad. Benard is doing the main course. . .a side of salmon he just happens to have in the refrigerator. The man never ceases to amaze me. I, of course, will be setting the table with my usual style and elan. I'm also in charge of wine, so no sneering at my contribution to the occasion.


Thankfully, Bonnie is no Andrew, or even Wilma of two years ago, but I can't help remembering my pre-Andrew days in Miami when we innocently thought that hurricanes were an occasion to have a party. In the early 60's we lived on the man-made Keystone Islands in North Miami. Since they had never been hurricane tested, one time when a hurricane threatened, ten or twelve couples, complete with kids and dogs (we had two at the time) booked rooms in a bayfront hotel to ride out the storm and party hearty. What were we thinking??? Could we have chosen a worst place??? Fortunately, the storm wasn't as bad as projected.

Wisdom came the hard way in August of 1992 with the arrival of Hurricane Andrew. As an island in Biscayne Bay, Grove Isle is an evacuation zone, so I confidently packed up my two cats, Pasha & Sasha, and drove southward to daughter Andrea's home in the Kendall area. Another great choice. I won't bore you with the details. Suffice to say that two very frightened women, one 14 year old boy (that was you, Adam) and 5. . .count them. . .5 very scared cats. . (yes, we are a cat family and Andrea had 3 at the time). . all spent a very sleepless night praying that the front door would hold and the roof wouldn't blow off.


In retrospect, you do some strange things when you are up against nature. We had no storm shutters and the entire rear wall of Andrea's house was made up of glass paneled french doors. The only thing we could find to protect ourselves from the threat of flying glass was a series of huge cardboard posters that were part of the decoration from Adam's recent bar mitzvah. We had no electricity during the endless night hours of the storm, but every time the lightning lit up the room we were faced with lifesize portraits of Adam in various sports outfits, since his love of all sports was the "theme" of the bar mitzvah party. Pretty funny, now that I think about it.

Not so funny was the fact that Andrea's neighborhood was without power for some nine weeks after the storm. Neighbors took turns sitting in front of their damaged homes with rifles on their laps and the mood of the day was "You Loot. . We Shoot". Life became a round of finding gasoline to fuel the generator that allowed a choice of some airconditioning or some electricity during the searing heat of late August in Miami. We would go on gas runs to Broward County where gas stations had not been damaged by the storm. Andrea used to say you could tell a hurricane woman by her perfume: "eau d' kerosene". Teen age Adam was in charge of keeping the generator going and became very adept at handling the 5 gallon gas cans.

That was 18 years ago, but memories die hard. Blow your heart out, Bonnie. I've seen worse. You're no big deal. At least I hope not. # # #

Thoughts on exercising. . .

It was raining this morning,so I couldn't go out for my morning walk. Since the "significant other" had made his famous linguini with clam sauce, plus garlic bread, for dinner last night, it was imperative that I do something to reduce the calorie damage. I decided to go to the gym in our complex and maybe do a few miles on the stationary bike.

Apparently, Grove Isle has upgraded its equipment since the last time I set foot in the gym. For one thing, what used to look like a mechanical bike that you got on and started pedaling, now has enough controls to qualify as a NASA shuttle cockpit. The pretty young blonde on the machine next to me took pity after five minute when I still couldn't find the start button, much less set the speed and change the channel on the flat screen TV that persisted in listing how fast (slow) I was going, my heart rate and several other frightening numbers. If it asked for my age, I was going to bash it with one of my Nikes.

I managed to keep pedaling through a truly boring Today show interview with Elizabeth Edwards. I would have changed the channel but I still wasn't sure exactly how. The blonde was still calmly pedaling away at twice my miles per hour when I called it quits on that machine, took one look at the new elipticals and decided they would really be my undoing. At this point I was yearning for a nice brisk walk around the island where I'm in total control of my physical well being. This place was starting to scare me.

I marched myself into the next room where the machines looked more familiar, did a few sets on two or three of them, but I could tell I was losing heart. Even here there was a brand new machine that could easily qualify as a torture chamber in some medieval prison. Just looking at it made my latent claustrophobia kick in. I settled on several sets with wimpy 3 lb. weights, smiled brightly at anyone I saw, and headed for home.

Back in my apartment, I found both cats sound asleep in my bed. Next time it rains, I think I'll join them.
# #
Photo caption: Ginger's editorial comment on exercising.

Ticket to celebrity!!!

The paparazzi came to our art class the other morning. I, along with the three other members of my class, are about to be featured in a magazine article about "active" senior citizens. Would you believe.

Let me give you the back story. My friend Jackie and I go to art class on Thursday mornings at OLLI, an acronym for Osher Lifelong Learning Institute. OLLI is under the aegis of the University of Miami and located on the UM campus in its own building. OLLI offers a full program of classes and lectures, but Jackie and I are only signed up for the Advanced Acryllic Painting Class. She's the advanced one, I'm a newbie, just doing the best I can and having a great time painting away llike crazy.

This week when we arrived at class we found a photographer with a lot of serious equipment and a young woman named Kathleen who represented the monthly magazine published by AV-MED the giant HMO insurance company. Neither Jackie nor I have AD-MED insurance, but that didn't seem to matter, since the article was to be about little old people who managed to stay active and weren't sitting around waiting to die.

Kathleen seemed slightly nonplussed that there wasn't one gray, or better still, snow white "cauliflower head" amongst the four of us. We also weren't on walkers or nodding off as she spoke. As a matter of fact, we are a pretty lively and very diverse bunch, ranging from effervescent red-headed Patt, in her early sixties, who has a penchant for doing marvelous mural sized paintings, to quiet, brown-haired Diane, in her mid-seventies, who does beautifully detailed water colors although this is billed as an acryllics class. Then there is elegant Jackie, who has been painting for years, and just celebrated her really big birthday that makes her the same age as moi. Neither of us has a gray hair on our heads, thanks to excellent hairdressers in the area. (A low bow to you, Louis.)

I think the fact that we were all wearing jeans and tee shirts was also slightly upsetting from a visual point of view, but Kathleen gamely carried on, asking us questions and watching us work.

If the magazine wanted "active" seniors, they got a full dose of them that morning. Danny, the professional photographer, had trouble keeping up with us, but by the end of the session had done an incredible job of catching the essence of each of us as we painted, checked constantly on each other's work in progress, and absorbed suggestions from our instructor Daphne, who is an award-winning artist in her own right.

The magazine article is due to come out in August. I'm expecting a call from a reality tv show, or at least an invitation from MOMA. Actually, I'll be more than satisfied if they spell my name right and use a flattering photo. Just in case they don't, I had the "significant other" take a photo of me with my latest painting.

Title it "The Senior Citizen Artist At Work".