One

     The cover of the July 19, 2010 issue of Time features the photo of a blond, 9-year-old boy holding the hands of his parents, only their arms showing in the frame of the photo.  The headline reads:  The Only Child Myth -- They're supposed to be selfish, spoiled, and lonely.  In fact, they're just fine -- and on the rise.

     As the mother of an only child, I found the article of great interest.  But what struck me most about the magazine cover was not the headline so much as the photo of the little boy.  He reminded me of my own son at that age, so I dug out a comparable photo (above).  This is one of many, many photos of Steve, Greg, and me -- not a "family of four," (or five, or more) but a family of three.  And, like many of the parents featured in the article, we limited our offspring to one by choice.

     It was not an easy decision.  Steve is one of six kids; I have one sister.  We had always assumed we would have at least two children.  But, by the time Greg was 3 years old, it had become increasingly clear to us that more than one child would pose a daunting challenge.  After considerable thought, we decided to stop with one.  It's a choice we have never regretted.  The author of the article, Lauren Sandler, is an only child herself -- or, as she prefers to call herself, a "singleton."  Her parents stopped with one child after considering their life goals:  "They wanted the experience of parenting but also their careers, the freedom to travel and the lower cost and urbane excitement of making a home in an apartment rather than a suburban house."  Today, parents are  more likely to cite the economy and an uncertain financial future as the primary reasons for having only one child.

     Finances were a major factor in our decision, as well as our crazy musicians' schedules.  We knew from the start that it would be a challenge to provide all the things we wanted for our child, not just financially but also in terms of time and attention.  We worried that dividing our meager resources among multiple children would mean shortchanging all of them.  As it turned out, we were right.  Children are expensive and becoming more so.  According to Ms. Sandler, "the U.S. Department of Agriculture reports that the average child in the U.S. costs his or her parents about $286, 050 -- before college.  These costs have actually risen during the recession." 

     In our case, we had an even more compelling reason to seriously question the wisdom of having a second child.  My ridiculously easy pregnancy (I never even had morning sickness) turned into a nightmare at delivery.  I developed preeclampsia in my last trimester, which resulted in an early delivery by C-section and 48 touch-and-go hours afterward during which I exhibited high blood pressure, a high fever, and fluid retention that threatened to shut down my kidneys.  After the fact, I learned that preeclampsia apparently runs in the family.  I've never been sicker in my life, and the point wasn't lost on me that, in another era, I would have died in childbirth (and so would my baby).  Thanks to modern medicine and two fantastic obstetricians experienced with high-risk deliveries, I made a full recovery.  To me, not risking another pregnancy made sense.  After all, I had a child now;  he deserved a mother who was fully able to nurture him to adulthood, and I wanted to be able to do that. On a personal note, I have never felt "unfulfilled" as a mother of a singleton.  On the contrary, I think focusing my time and attention on the care of one child has made me a better mother than I might have been otherwise.  After all, I'm a private flute teacher for a living -- I'm at my best when I concentrate on one child at a time.

     And yet, when we made our "only child" decision public, we were pounded with criticism from friends, acquaintances, colleagues, and even family members -- some of whom knew our circumstances and still declared it "selfish" to stop with one child.  One person expressed how "unimaginable" it would be to not have siblings!  Another stated with authority, "All children need siblings."   At least two people directly admonished me:  "Don't make Greg be an only child!" -- as if that were some kind of punishment.  Most annoying, a colleague of Steve's frequently asked him, "When are you and Emily going to have another baby?"
     As Ms. Sandler points out in her article, the stereotype of the only child as being lonely, selfish, and maladjusted, persists -- despite numerous studies that prove otherwise.  Even The View's Sherri Shepherd (the mother of a singleton herself), fanned the flame with her statement that she knows "a lot of selfish only children."  In fairness, the next day she backtracked, claiming that she meant to say "self-centered" and gave an example of a friend of hers (an only) who doesn't like to share.  Well, I'm glad she cleared that up!

     From my own perspective, most of the singletons I have known are very well-adjusted, have plenty of friends, and are generous to a fault.  Research backs this up, along with another finding, according to Sandler:  " . . . studies showed that singletons aren't measurably different from other kids -- except that they, along with firstborns and people who have only one sibling, score higher in measures of intelligence and achievement."  Greg always exhibited high intellect and quite advanced verbal skills -- perhaps as a result of spending more time with adults than with other children.  Although he did not always apply consistent effort in his studies, he did maintain straight As throughout his high school years.  Maladjusted?  I don't think so.  

     As a child, Greg was, well, gregarious.  He sought out friends, and he was always eager (sometimes a little too eager, in my opinion) to share his toys.  Only one child actually lived at our house, but you'd never know it -- our house was "Kid Central."  Greg's childhood was filled with playmates and sleep-overs.  His cousins (the closest thing to siblings) were also frequent visitors.  The only time he ever seemed lonely was when all his friends were gone on summer vacation with their families.  During those times, he learned to entertain himself.  If you ask me, that's a skill that every child should develop.

     I spent this past year chronicling my only child's last year of high school in this blog.  How fitting that the "One and Done" article appears in Time this summer, just a week before Greg's 18th birthday.  Ms. Sandler concludes with the following observation:  "Like most only children, I've cast cousins and friends as ersatz siblings since I was a child, knowing it's not the same as having a brother or a sister but not necessarily missing what I don't have."  I've heard Greg express the same sentiment.  Did we do the right thing, having only one child?  If the "right thing" is raising your children -- no matter how many you have -- to be kind, polite, generous, responsible, and happy young adults . . . then I'd answer an emphatic YES.  Or, to quote my husband's response to his nosy colleague:  "We got it right the first time." 

Sandler, Lauren.  "One and Done,"  p. 34, Time,  Vol. 176, No. 3, July 19, 2010.

    

Senior Moment No. 10: Post-Graduate Reflections

To the reader:  This is the last in a series of postings chronicling my son Greg's senior year in high school.  Previous postings can be found under the heading "Senior Moments."

                                                                                                  

     It's hard to believe that nearly a month has passed since graduation.  Four weeks ago tonight Greg received his high school diploma.  The traditional march to the strains of Pomp and Circumstance (although the tempo that night was closer to a sprint than a march); a couple of speeches; a few well-chosen words of advice; the handshake from the principal; a shower of silly string  . . . and in 90 minutes it was over!  I meant to post this last installment of "Senior Moments" on graduation night, but it was late when we got home; I was too tired.  The next day was "Recovery Day" after the whirlwind of activity that marked Graduation Weekend.  The following weekend was my studio recital; the weekend after that Memorial Day weekend.  Then came June and starting my summer lesson schedule.  In short, we've moved on.   Time didn't stop with Greg's graduation.  So now I've had nearly a month to let it sink in and reflect on this momentous rite of passage.  And you know what?  A month later, it doesn't seem quite as life-altering as I expected. 

     For one thing, Greg is still living at home and will be for the next couple of years while he attends Johnson County Community College.  Empty-nesters?  Not yet.  Other than sleeping in later -- it is summer, after all -- our routines aren't all that different.  Greg is still working part time at Pizza Hut; I'm still teaching private lessons; Steve is still playing weekend gigs and conducting his usual summer show at The Theatre in the Park ("Annie," if you must know). 

     But, little by little, things are changing.  The week after graduation Greg cleaned out his room.  He cleared out his closet, dresser drawers, shelves -- even under his bed (!) -- and removed no fewer than four large trash bags of stuff.  Two bags went to Goodwill, another to a garage sale, and the fourth one into the trash.  It's amazing -- for years I nagged Greg to clean out his closet.  If I'd only known, I would have encouraged him to graduate earlier!  (Just kidding.)  He moved the large dresser out of his room and added more shelves to his closet; he also replaced the old particle board student desk with a snazzy new one made of glass and metal.  I gave him my plush Crate & Barrel chair.  I bought it through Craig's List last year, thinking it would be a nice addition to my bedroom, but it took up too much space.  Steve was constantly running into it and complaining about it -- I knew he wouldn't miss it!  All that's left to do is paint, and Greg's room will look more like a college dorm room . . . only slightly larger and much less expensive.  In the meantime, we've been collecting several pieces of furniture in the basement:  the old dresser, our old kitchen table and chairs -- all in storage until the day that Greg moves out. 

     When I began my blog last summer, it was with the idea to chronicle my son's last year of high school.  In my first "Senior Moments" posting, I listed all the things I wished we had done before Greg's senior year.  Among them was "We should have bought a camcorder."  Well, guess what?  The week before graduation, I bought one!  We took it to the graduation ceremony, and shot a few minutes of the program.  Unfortunately, we were too far away to get a viewable film.  But that's okay.  I figure it's a justifiable expense, since we can use it to take videos of some of our musical performances (hey, it's tax-deductible!).  We did get some nice still photos (posted at the beginning and end of this blog). 

     The end of Greg's senior year doesn't mean the end of my blog.  Far from it.  Maybe this fall I'll start a blog chronicling Greg's college experience.  Maybe I'll write more about music and even post some homemade videos (once I learn how).  In any case, I'm open to suggestions.  I've got all the time in the world now -- after all, I'm the parent of a high school graduate. 

Senior Moment No. 9: DONE!

     Today I heard the words I've been waiting to hear all year from my graduating senior:  "I just wrote my last essay for Mrs. Simmons!"  Just kidding.  Of course, every parent is waiting for that moment when her child's name is called and he receives his diploma and a handshake from the school principal.  That moment will arrive on Sunday.

     But today is still a day for celebration.  It was Greg's absolute last day of high school classes.  The rest of the week will be filled with celebrations, awards ceremonies, and graduation practice, but today is the first step across the threshold.

     I think I remember my own "last day of high school" better than I do the graduation ceremony or any other graduation activities.  It was the most liberating feeling, walking out the front door of the school, knowing that it was the last time I would walk through those doors as a student.  Like Greg did today when he arrived "home from school" for the last time, I felt like high-fiving everyone.  That is, until I opened my flute case and found it empty!  A frantic phone call to the school alerted the band director to the alleged theft.  Within minutes he called back to say that he had found my flute -- hidden at the very back of a deep shelf in the instrument storage room.  My euphoria at leaving school for the last time was short-lived, as I returned to the building to collect my flute.

     To this day, I have no idea who took my flute out of its case and hid it in the deepest recesses of the shelves in the storage room.  Was it a prank?  Did the thief hide the flute, planning to return for it later?  I'll never know.  But the event cast a pall on my otherwise perfect "last day."  Moreover, it left a bad taste in my mouth about high school in general.  Not hard to do -- I didn't enjoy high school.  I mostly viewed it as something to be merely tolerated on my way to something better.  My high school years began promisingly at Patton Jr. High School, Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas.  I had the great fortune to spend 6th through 9th grade in one of the best school districts in the country.  Even better, it was populated by military kids like me; I had no difficulty fitting in.  Unfortunately, things went downhill from there.
     I spent one miserable year at Leavenworth High School, where I discovered an undercurrent of hostility against Army brats.  In the insulated environment of Ft. Leavenworth (basically a self-sustaining small town), I had been blissfully unaware of this phenomenon.  Sophomore year, it smacked me in the face.  As if it weren't obvious enough by the disdainful looks, this negative attitude toward "brats" was confirmed by an anonymous editorial condemning the military lifestyle and characterizing military dependents as a bunch of snobs.  It was a relief, then, to move to Kansas City.
     The downside, though, was enrolling in my third school (make that third high school) in as many years.  My dad left the Army and joined a private optometry practice in Kansas City, Kansas.  My last two years of high school were spent at Washington High, where I made only a handful of friends.  Most of the kids had known each other since kindergarten; by the time I got to know people, we were graduating.  I've never been to a high school class reunion, and I have no intention of ever attending one.  Mostly, I have only a vague memory of my last two years of high school (no, I wasn't drunk or on drugs!).  I felt like I was in a holding pattern; I had no real connection to the place or the people.  The very few times I have actually encountered anyone from my graduating class, I honestly couldn't remember them.  Their faces and names didn't register.  Why torture myself (and others) staring blankly at name tags, trying desperately to place them?  Besides, I'd probably spend the entire reunion wondering which one of them stole my flute on the last day of school!
     I think Greg has had a better high school experience than I did.  Still, he's had his share of disappointments, and he's ready to move on.  He doesn't romanticize high school; he understands that the best is yet to come.  He's been telling us all year that he can't wait to move on to the next phase of his life.  As of today, one foot is out the door.  Ah, that lighter-than-air, carefree feeling! If only I could put it into words.  Well, I think "I just wrote my last essay for Mrs. Simmons!" says it all.  Don't you?  
         

    

I'ma Steal Your Thunder

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9d8S_9PZ56M

     I've been "kanye'd!"  Remember last fall when Kanye West rudely interrupted Taylor Swift's acceptance speech at the MTV Awards, effectively stealing her spotlight?  (Click the link above to view the video).  Well, a similar thing happened to me last week, only my "Kanye" moment occurred via email, not cable television.

     I emailed a notice about an upcoming concert to a group of musicians.  Shortly after the email went out, I received a response from one of the recipients.  The sender hit 'reply all.'  "An embarrassment of riches!" began the message, which went on to advertise the sender's own concert . . . scheduled at the same time as mine.  The sender obviously realized the two concerts coincided and attempted to cover up her faux pas by "facetiously" making note of that fact and then inviting the other recipients to call her while she was in town.  Hmm.  I don't think facetious is quite the right word to describe this situation.  Let's see -- I sent an announcement/invitation about a concert to a group of musician friends; one of the recipients used my email group to promote her own competing concert.  What do you think, Miss Manners?

     Gentle Reader:  It was most certainly rude, but that's not the half of it.  By clicking 'reply all,' thereby using your email group (can't she create her own?), she in effect made you her private (unpaid) secretary.  In the future, you might consider sending out concert notices by way of the U.S. Postal Service.

     Of course, anyone who reads Miss Manners's column knows that she frowns upon sending any sort of invitation by email.  Still, she acknowledges that email has become the most efficient (if not polite) form of communication, and the rules of etiquette still apply.  
     How about another opinion?  What say you, Dear Abby? 
     Dear Kanye'd:  Well, I always say that no one can take advantage of you without your permission.  However, this seems to be one of those rare instances in which someone did take advantage of you without your permission!  My advice is to simply eliminate her from all future mailings.
     I'm sure that some of my audience thinks I'm overreacting and I should just let it go.  So somebody stole my thunder -- what does it matter?  Well, for one thing, I'm not the only one who took offense.  I received feedback from three other recipients of both my original message and the piggyback response.  One recipient emailed me privately with the following subject line:  "Did you just get trumped?"  All agreed that the sender was out of line. 
     Secondly, there's no excuse for rudeness.  People choose to be rude; exhibiting rude behavior does not happen by accident.  Unfortunately, we live in a time when rude behavior is increasing.  We live in a country where shouting insults, vulgarity, and name-calling are becoming the norm in public discourse.  Kanye West didn't just wander on stage at the MTV Awards, stumble upon the microphone in Taylor Swift's hand, and randomly express his opinion that Beyonce should have won the "Best Video" award.  He made a conscious decision to trump Taylor's moment and make it his own.  In much the same way, my facetious colleague made a conscious decision to use my email group to further her own agenda.  A few months ago, another colleague made a conscious decision to "non-invite" my husband to a brunch with other musicians (again, by email) by announcing to all of the recipients of the message that she didn't invite him because she didn't think he would want to come.  What would Miss Manners say to that?
     Everything we need to know about how to get along with others we learned in kindergarten.  I'm assuming, of course, that all of the aforementioned people attended kindergarten.  Even if they didn't, it doesn't take a D.M.A. to know the basic rules of civility:  Always say "please" and "thank you." Don't interrupt. Wait your turn.  Respect others' personal space.  Ask permission before you use your friends' stuff.  You can't invite just one person in the class to your birthday party, you must invite the entire class; to do otherwise is impolite. 
     Manners matter. There is another facet to the Kanye West-Taylor Swift debacle.  Beyonce Knowles, the singer whose video was the subject of Kanye's spotlight-stealing rant, showed real class later in the show when she took the stage to accept an award.  Instead of using her time to give her own acceptance speech (as she was entitled to do), Beyonce called Taylor to the stage and selflessly yielded the microphone to Taylor so she could complete her interrupted speech.  If you ask me, the world would be a much nicer place if we had more Beyonces and fewer Kanyes.  
     Every one of the musicians who received my emailed concert announcement is a teacher.  Included in that announcement was a request:  "Please pass this announcement along to your students."  Perhaps I should have added:  "And please set a good example for your students!"  I'm a teacher, too.  That's why I can't just let this incident pass without comment.  There's an often-used saying these days:  Be the change you want to see in the world.  Be a Beyonce, not a Kanye.
        
    
    
       

Senior Moment No. 8: Home Stretch!

     Greg walked in the door yesterday after school and announced, "I only have eight more days of school!"  That's eight more days of public school.  Two weeks from tomorrow he will officially graduate, leaving behind the routines that have governed his life for the last thirteen years.  Think about that -- Greg (and the rest of the Class of 2010) has spent most of his life in school.  Seven hours a day, five days a week, nine months of the year.  By my estimation, he has eaten more than 2,000 school lunches.  He went through at least five backpacks; I can't even begin to guess how many pencils or how many sheets of notebook paper.

     Even Greg noted how odd it seems to be coming to the end of an entire stage of life.  Although, truth be told, he checked out weeks ago.  Like all graduating seniors, Greg has been on cruise-control for the entire last quarter of school.  He already has one foot in the door at college, having completed enrollment at Johnson County Community College for this fall.  All that's left to do now is pay tuition.

     And that's it.  Presto -- as one phase of his life is ending, the next is beginning.  It's an almost seamless transition, maybe more so in Greg's case because he isn't leaving home just yet.  He plans to attend JCCC for two years and then transfer to a four-year college, most likely the University of Kansas.  He will be living at home, so it won't be such a huge upheaval.  In our case, Steve and I can expect a delay in "Empty Nest Syndrome."  In the meantime, the graduation announcements have been mailed and a family celebration planned.  All that remains for Greg is finals week, the Senior Picnic, and Commencement itself.  In just two weeks, it will all be over. 

     It's not just Greg who will be moving on.  Since he's our only child, it also means that Steve and I will no longer be directly involved in our child's schooling.  Oh, I'll still have ties to the Olathe school district through my private flute students and my part time position as a tutor in the AVID program.  But it won't be quite the same.  I'll miss the interaction with Greg's teachers; from now on, his progress will be largely between him and his professors -- no more progress reports addressed to "The Parents of Greg Smith."  I'll kind of miss signing field trip permission slips.  Kind of.  I won't miss receiving an email update of Greg's lunch account balance every Thursday.  And, since Greg's earliest class at JCCC will be at 9:00 a.m., I'm looking forward to sleeping a little later before I have to get up and make sure he's awake.  (Look, I'm a realist -- Greg's a sound sleeper in the habit of hitting the snooze button multiple times and then dozing off.  I'm his backup alarm.)

     So.  Eight more days.  (Sigh.)

    

The Mythology of Music Festival Judging

     I just heard my last student's contest solo this week -- tomorrow is the BIG DAY.  This year I have eleven students playing solos and four playing in small ensembles for the annual spring music event universally known as "Contest."  It's not really a contest, more of an assessment test in which students prepare solos and ensembles to perform for an adjudicator.  The adjudicator (just call her "judge") writes (hopefully) constructive comments and affixes a rating number to the upper right hand corner of the comment sheet.  A first division rating (I) is the best; a II is good but not enough to qualify for a trip to the state level; a III is, well, average; a IV is below average and in need of an intervention; a V means the student is on life support, musically speaking. 

     I know this system well.  In addition to having coached solos and ensembles for the past 25 or more years, I have judged solos and ensembles at the Regional and State levels.  This is the high school music program equivalent of World Figure Skating; the best of the best get to move on to the Olympics, while the also-rans have to wait until next year to try again.  And, like the figure skating scoring system, the solo & ensemble festival scoring is highly subjective.

     Not surprisingly, a number of urban myths have developed over the years.  As a judge and a flute teacher, I try to dispel the myths, but the same ones keep cropping up year after year.  So, as a public service -- on the eve of the Kansas Regional Solo and Ensemble Festivals -- I would like to address some of the more persistent ones.

     1)   Judges are instructed to only give a I rating to 10% of the students.  Untrue.  In nearly two decades of festival judging, I have never once been instructed to give a certain percentage of Is, IIs, etc.  Judges are given a guide sheet to aid them in determining a rating.  For example, a I performance is "an outstanding performance, with few technical errors and exemplifying a truly musical expression.  This rating should be reserved for the truly outstanding performance."  Contrast that with the description of a III performance:  "An average performance, showing accomplishment and marked promise.  Lacks one or more essential musical qualities, has musical weakness, and ineffectively uses existing instrumentation."  Given the open-endedness of the descriptions, it's perfectly understandable that one judge's I rating may be another's II.  As in figure skating, music performance ratings vary from one judge to the next.

     2)  It's better to play 1st in the morning, 1st after lunch, or 1st after the morning and afternoon breaks; the judge is fresh, relaxed, and more lenient.  Uh, don't count on it.  A truly outstanding performance is appreciated no matter what time of day the judge hears it.  I've given IIIs to the first three or four performers and Is in the middle of the afternoon . . . and everything in between at all times of the day.  The student's performance time is neither an advantage nor a disadvantage.  The advantage depends on the level of preparation. 

     3)  Judges are always comparing performances, especially if more than one student plays the same piece.  Well, maybe.  But honestly, once the next student walks into the room, I've forgotten the performance I just heard.  I shift my focus to the student standing before me and give that student my undivided attention.  There are simply too many performances to listen to throughout the day for me to consciously make comparisons.  Besides, I'm a professional -- my job is to comment and rate each performance as I hear it.

     4)  I will get a lower rating if: a) my piece is too long, b) my piece is too short, c) I play an unaccompanied piece, d)  my accompanist sucks, e) I use my music instead of playing from memory.  Okay, some of these concerns may be valid, but it depends on the rules set down by the State High School Activities Association.  In Missouri, for example, there is a minimum and a maximum time limit, and there are penalties for going over or under; in Kansas, there are no such time restrictions.  Each student is allotted a time slot of about 8 minutes or so, which includes tuning to the piano.  If a student goes over his or her time, he or she will simply be asked to stop playing.  It doesn't affect the rating, but it's kind of a bummer not to finish the piece.  Some states require memorization; in Kansas, it varies by instrument.  All my flute students need to know is that memorization is not required at Regional or State in Kansas.  There is also no list of "acceptable pieces" in Kansas, although there is such a list in Missouri.  Kansas students may play unaccompanied pieces; however, pieces that require piano accompaniment must be performed with an accompanist.  Performing without the necessary accompaniment could result in disqualification. 

     As for the performance level of the accompanist . . . well, that's another subjective element that requires an adjudicator to use his or her best, uh, judgment.  Officially, judges are supposed to comment and assess ratings only on the solo, not the accompaniment.  But I've judged many a solo where the accompanist was a real detriment to the overall performance.  It's hard not to downgrade the soloist when accompanist issues so adversely affect the performance that the student can't perform his or her best.  The best defense is a good offense:  Get a good accompanist in the first place and schedule enough rehearsals with that person to feel confident and secure in the performance.  And don't wait too late -- good accompanists' schedules fill up fast!

     5)  The judge graded me down because: a) she didn't like the way I was dressed, b) the music stand wasn't the right height for me, c) I played a piece that was too easy/hard.  Judges are cautioned not to comment on dress or choice of music; if the judge did make such a comment, then you might have a legitimate grievance.  I said might.  But think about how you present yourself -- your dress, posture, and choice of music say a lot about you as a musician.  How do those things affect your perception of your favorite rock artist, for example?  As much as we like to think it's only about the music, the fact is the way you present yourself visually absolutely affects the way you play.  It's difficult to stand up straight and be comfortable in 4-inch heels.  If your feet hurt, you will probably be distracted and won't play your best.  A good rule of thumb:  Dress nice, but comfortably.  If you look sloppy, you tend to play that way; if you look polished, you tend to play that way.  It's your choice.

     A word about the music stand -- it is yours to use however you wish (within reason).  If it's too high or too low when you walk in the room, adjust it to the height that's comfortable for you.  Remember, judges are not allowed to converse with the student.  As a judge, I may be thinking you need to raise the music stand, but it's not my place to suggest it.  If you don't adjust it and you end up bending down to see the music, then I am perfectly within my rights to put a minus sign (-) in the space next to posture.  And I have done so, many times.  Use some common sense.  It's your performance; it's your responsibility to make it your best, not the judge's.

     As for the difficulty of the piece, judges at Kansas events are generally told not to comment on the choice of music, which covers everything from the grade level of the piece to taking cuts, even the style of the piece.  Technically, you could play "The Star-Spangled Banner" or "Mary Had A Little Lamb," and I would have to rate you on how you played, not what you played.  But be assured -- if you miss a note or two in "Mary," play out of tune in the national anthem, or fail to play any dynamics, I am perfectly justified in giving you a II or even a III rating.  Playing a super-easy or super-hard piece will NOT automatically result in a I rating!  I'm only impressed by you playing the Chaminade Concertino if you play it in its entirety and up to tempo.  And if you can't hold out the opening high D in the 1st movement of the Mozart D Major Concerto for the full 16 1/2 counts without going flat, then you probably shouldn't be playing that piece.  It's as simple as that.  It's a little too late this year, but here's a word of advice for next year:  Choose a piece that emphasizes your strengths, not one that exposes your weaknesses.  

     Judging music festivals is a thankless job.  It's a long and tiring day, and it doesn't pay very well.  Those of us who continue to judge year after year do so because we enjoy hearing young musicians perform, and we genuinely want to help them improve and develop.  Those are the same reasons so many of us teach private students and coach them through this annual rite of spring.  Luckily, I'm not judging this year!  I'm on a bit of a sabbatical from it, so I get to sit at home tomorrow and wait for the phone calls from my students telling me how they fared.  My work is done.  It's out of my hands now -- and in the judges'.  Boy, I sure hope some of my students end up in the 10% bracket -- or at least get to perform right after the lunch break when the judge is refreshed.  Maybe she'll be lenient with the student playing "Mary Had a Little Lamb" . . . as long as my student plays all the dynamics . . . like I coached her . . . 

    
    

"Supersize Bombshell" Needs a Reality Check

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Senior Moment No. 7: Perfect Attendance!

     The photo at left was taken in Chicago in August, 1997.  Greg had just turned 5 in July and would soon start kindergarten.  In October, 1997, we attended our very first parent-teacher conference.  Yesterday we attended our very last.  I'm proud to report that I have a perfect attendance record for parent-teacher conferences!  Steve may have missed a couple over the years when parent-teacher conferences at his school conflicted with Greg's.  But I've been there every semester for the last thirteen years.

     In the early grades, it was absolutely necessary to attend.  Greg was a bit of a discipline problem back then -- an energetic little boy who had trouble staying in his seat and hadn't quite mastered the concept of "personal space."  Eventually he settled down, and we had a couple of "breather" years in elementary school when his teachers happily reported that behavior and grades were all good.  I have fond, fond memories of 4th grade -- that was definitely Greg's best year in school.  Memo to young parents:  4th grade is usually a wonderful year -- 9-year-olds are old enough to do things for themselves (unsupervised), but they haven't yet developed an attitude (that will come in 5th grade).  Savor it. Take lots of pictures.  Take trips.  Spend as much time as you can with your sweet, adorable, personable, delightful child . . . next year you probably won't want to!

     Sliding grades were the leitmotif of Greg's junior high conferences.  7th grade delivered a super-sized culture shock to Greg.  The boy who never turned in a late paper in 6th grade (thanks to a teacher who constantly reminded him) suddenly couldn't turn in an assignment on time to save his life.  Worse, he often forgot to do his homework!  As the fall of 2004 marched on, we found ourselves taking away more and more privileges.  First it was playstation, then hanging out with friends -- ditto skateboard.  By November the only thing Greg had left was the t.v.; he was in "grounding limbo."  Parents often say to their kids when they're handing out restrictions, "Believe me, this hurts me more than it hurts you!"  Well, that year, I think it actually hurt Greg more.  But seven weeks of being grounded made an impression -- by 3rd quarter his grades were on the rise.

     Still, junior high school was Greg's purgatory, a teenage wasteland filled with stifling rules, intense peer pressure, and a band director who made Freddy Kruger look like a Red Cross disaster relief worker.  Every conference with every teacher in junior high focused on the same three deficiencies: Greg needed to 1) put forth more effort, 2) ask questions when he didn't understand something, and 3) get his work done and turn it in.  Ask questions/more effort/turn your work in/ask questions/more effort/turn your work in/ask questions/more effort/turn your work in . . . I'm sure we sounded like a scratched CD to Greg.

     Yet somehow the message sank in and took hold.  Greg truly did an about-face in high school.  His sophomore year started a little shaky, but his grades were all As and Bs by second semester.  By junior year -- straight As.  Senior year?  Straight HIGH As!  We were still hearing the same comments, over and over, from each of his teachers, but the difference is, they were all positive:  "Greg's a nice, quiet kid, and a good student."  Scratched CD or iPod blip, I don't care -- I don't mind hearing that message again and again.  And the coolest remark of all last night -- from his Algebra 3/Trig teacher, no less -- "Greg's a real studmuffin at math!"  Seriously?  This is the kid who used to make Ds in math in 9th grade, who hated math with a passion!  Now he tells us it's his favorite class!  

     So let me amend my earlier remarks about 4th grade.  Yes, fellow parents, do savor that 4th grade year -- it will likely be one of the best years of your child's (and your) life.  But, if junior high resembles The Nightmare on Elm Street, don't despair.  Kids do grow up.  They gain maturity and actually become (gasp!) responsible.  They really do learn to be self-motivated.  And, if you just have a little faith in them -- and take away their iPods now and then -- they, too, may blossom into mathematical studmuffins. 

Senior Moment No. 6a: "Sunday in the ER with Greg -- The Sequel"

     Previously, on "Sunday in the ER with Greg":  After vomiting several times Saturday night, we took an obviously dehydrated Greg to the Olathe Medical Center emergency care, where he was treated with anti-nauseal medications and fluids through an IV.    

     Exactly one week ago today I was sitting in the Olathe Medical Center emergency room with Greg while he received fluids through an IV.  After vomiting eight times in 24 hours, he was dehydrated.  As I mentioned in my previous posting, I bypassed the urgent care facility and took him straight to the ER.  It was a good call.  Three hours later he was released.  He went home and slept for about 14 hours straight.

     Over the next few days he complained of mild abdominal pain, but he (and we) figured it was caused by soreness from all the intestinal turmoil.  So it was quite a shock when the school nurse called me at work on Thursday to tell me that Greg was experiencing severe pain in his back, lower right side!  When I arrived to pick him up, she brought him out the front door in a wheel chair.  For the second time that week Greg went to the ER.

     Once again, an IV was started, and Greg was given zofran for nausea and morphine for pain.  They took a urine sample and did a CAT scan.  When the results came back, it was just as the school nurse and ER staff had suspected -- Greg had a kidney stone.  It showed up on the CAT scan as no larger than a grain of sand -- hard to imagine something so tiny causing so much pain.  The composition of most kidney stones is calcium; they tend to lodge in the ureter, blocking the flow of urine.  The pressure from the "back-up" is what causes the intense pain until they dislodge and pass into the bladder.  From there, they generally dissolve and exit the body through the urine.  Fascinating stuff.  Greg's stone apparently passed while he was in the ER, probably on his way back to the exam room from the CAT scan.  The ER doctor assumed it had passed because Greg immediately felt better -- no pain!  Greg was cleared to go home.

     Before Thursday, the only family member I recalled having had a kidney stone was my dad.  He was in his 40s when his stone developed.  His stone did not pass -- it had to be surgically removed.  A few years later my dad suffered a heart attack.  To this day, he is fond of saying that, given the choice, pain-wise, between a kidney stone and a heart attack . . . he'd take the heart attack.  I've heard women remark that the pain of a kidney stone was worse than the pain of childbirth -- no wonder Greg was in so much agony!

     Still, how often do teenagers get kidney stones?  I've always thought of a kidney stone as an "old person's" affliction; I've never heard of a 17-year-old having one.  And yet, the ER doc told us that he had seen a 15-year-old girl with a kidney stone earlier that same day.  In fact, to hear him talk, Olathe, Kansas must be the Kidney Stone Capital of the Midwest.  He told us that in Chicago, where he did his residency, he saw maybe three kidney stones a year.  Since moving to Olathe, he often sees three in one day!  Who knew? 

     Last night and earlier today Greg still had a little "residual" pain, but it seems to have disappeared now.  He read some information online about kidney stones:  it's normal to still have a little pain (after the stone has passed) just from the irritation it caused while lodged in the ureter.  Home care involves drinking lots of water (he does), avoiding soft drinks (he does), and taking pain medication as needed (he did).  Hopefully there won't be an "ER 3" any time soon.  But stay tuned . . .

      

Senior Moment No. 6 : Sunday in the ER with Greg

     New and soon-to-be parents often daydream about all the things they will experience with their children as they grow.  They imagine trips to the zoo, to museums, family vacations to Disney World and the Grand Canyon.  I'll bet somewhere a mom-to-be is at this moment planning her baby's first birthday party.  A new mom is feeding her infant and wondering what he will be like when he's 17.  I know I did.  One experience I can guarantee those new parents are not dreaming about is a trip to the Emergency Room. 

     And yet, that's one eventuality that every parent should plan for, because it will happen.  If you're really, really lucky, you'll visit the ER only once during your child's growing up years.  But I can tell you that your odds of winning the $48 million powerball are much better.  So far we have made a total of seven trips to the ER with Greg.  I say "so far" because he's still a minor (if only for 6 more months), but, even after he turns 18, he'll still be on our health insurance plan (we hope).  Parental concern aside, we'll have to accompany him to the ER if only because we have to sign the treatment consent form as the "responsible party."

     Which brings me to our most recent visit to the Olathe Medical Center's emergency care area.  That would be today.  Greg spent most of the day Saturday vomiting, the unhappy victim of a particularly nasty stomach virus that hit him hard.  By 9:00 am, after his eighth run to the bathroom, I decided we needed to get him to a doctor.  Well, as everyone knows, primary care physicians' offices are rarely open on Sundays.  The walk-in clinic didn't open until noon.  Considering the paleness of Greg's skin and the dryness of his lips, I figured the walk-in staff would just send him to OMC anyway.  So, hey, by 17 years old, he knows the drill.  We skipped the middle man and made a beeline for the ER.

     It was most definitely the right call.  Yes, he was dehydrated.  They hooked him up to an IV and gave him anti-nausea medications.  We were there for most of three hours while they gave him two full bags of fluids.  When he was able to keep down fluids sipped from a cup as well as some crackers, they sent him home, where he has been asleep ever since. 

     This was, by my count, our 7th visit to the ER -- not including his birth, which took place in an OR in the maternity ward.  I had the easiest of pregnancies -- no morning sickness, no nausea, no complications.  But, by the middle of my third trimester, I had developed preeclampsia, which resulted in a c-section and a nightmarish recovery.  Preeclampsia is characterized by high fever, high blood pressure, a drop in platelet counts, and fluid retention (which puts the patient's kidneys in danger of shutting down).  I experienced all of that; in fact, I've never been sicker in my whole life.  For me, the possibility that I could have a recurrence with a subsequent pregnancy was enough to make the decision to stop with one child.  In fact, it turns out that preeclampsia runs in families.  My mother had it while pregnant with me, and my sister showed signs of it in her own pregnancies.  Suffice to say, I have never regretted that decision.

     Still, it didn't occur to me as a new mom that I would become a frequent buyer of OMC's emergency services.  Maybe it's because my only visit to the ER as a child was to accompany my sister who had cut her forehead on the bedrail of my bed in an unsuccessful attempt to jump from her bed to mine.  The cut required stitches.  It was excruciating!  It took so long; the whole ordeal was extremely painful and uncomfortable.  And that was just sitting in the waiting room!  I'm sure it wasn't much fun for my sister, either.  Yes, I was one of those blessedly sedentary kids who spent more time reading a book than doing something physical, thereby greatly reducing the risk of injury.  I didn't really get the full benefit of the ER experience until adulthood.  Now I consider myself sort of an expert.

     I had some time to reflect on this while I was sitting in the room this morning waiting for Greg to rehydrate.  Some of those visits turned out to be inconsequential -- nothing more than an inner ear infection.  But, when your toddler is obviously in pain and sobbing uncontrollably at 2:00 in the morning, what else do you do?  Some of those visits, however, were more memorable.  Here, then, are some of the highlights:

Why You Shouldn't Run With Sharp Objects (Or, Why You Can Never Completely Child-proof Your House No Matter How Hard You Try)

     Scene :  Early evening, summertime.  I suggested to 2-year-old Greg that we go out for ice cream (Steve was at a gig).  While I was collecting my purse and car keys, Greg ran outside.  Within seconds I heard a blood curdling scream followed by hysterical crying.  Unbeknownst to me, Greg had a pencil in his hand when he ran outside.  You guessed it -- he dropped the pencil, then promptly tripped and fell on it.  The pencil left a long, nasty-looking abrasion across his cheek; it stopped mere centimeters from his eye -- this is what your mother meant when she yelled, "You could put your eye out!"  The cool part, though, was literally watching the abrasion heal, right before my own eyes.  Young children's cells are constantly dividing and new ones growing; you can actually watch the regeneration in real time.  Pretty amazing.

We Told You to Leave the Poor Cat Alone!

     Scene:  December, 1996.  Our 10-year-old cat, Goblin, was dying of cancer.  He had a tumor on his tongue, which made it very difficult for him to eat.  He had lost a lot of weight and was very weak.  Yet, 4-year-old Greg persisted in tormenting the poor cat -- chasing him, grabbing his tail, trying to pick him up.  Finally, Goblin resorted to the only defense he had:  he bit Greg on the hand.  We cleaned the wound and treated it with Neosporin and a bandaid.  But cat bites can be tricky.  Even healthy cats have bacteria in their saliva that can cause infection.  Sure enough, in the wee hours of the  morning, Greg awoke feverish and crying, his hand swollen from a developing infection. 

     The ER visit included X-rays of the injury (to make sure there was no tendon damage), a tetanus shot, and a vigorous course of antibiotics.  The follow-up activities included an appointment the following day with a hand surgeon (in case there was damage to Greg's hand -- he could possibly lose all or partial use of it!) . . . and a 3:00 am home visit from an Animal Control Officer.  Note to pet owners with small children:  If your pet bites your child and he is treated in the ER, the ER staff are required by law to report the bite to Animal Control.  An officer will then come to collect the animal in question for a 10-day quarantine to watch for signs of rabies.  Even if the animal has recently been vaccinated for rabies, as Goblin was.  However, they are not equipped to take a terminally ill pet, as there is no veterinarian on staff.  In that case, the pet must be quarantined at your vet's clinic at your expense.  Hopefully your vet is like ours -- wise, compassionate, and sensible -- and he will convince the officer that the cat would be much more comfortable being quarantined at home.  Goblin passed away six weeks later.  Greg's hand sustained no damage, thus no surgery was required.  And he learned to be much nicer to the cats.

If, After Falling Off a Trampoline on Your Arm, You Feel Shooting Pain, Tingling, and/or Numbness -- For Pete's Sake, GO TO THE HOSPITAL!

     Okay, the title pretty much says it all, but let me fill in the details.  16-year-old Greg was at a friend's house jumping on a trampoline.  No spotters, not much thought given to safety, as evidenced by the fact that Greg decided to dismount by jumping off.  He jumped at an odd angle and put his arm out to catch his fall.  Landing on his arm with his full body weight resulted in a great deal of pain, tingling, and even numbness.  He treated the injured arm by going inside the house and lying on the couch.  Two hours later, his arm hurting worse, he decided to drive home.  Minutes from home, Greg called on his cell phone to say that he was on his way home, and, oh-by-the-way, he hurt his arm jumping off a trampoline -- "probably just a sprain."  When he arrived home, it was obvious this was a little more serious than a sprain.  The X-ray at the ER confirmed it:  hairline fracture just below the elbow.  Two weeks in a cast, another week with the arm in a sling.  Greg's lucky it was only three weeks; it could have been much worse and much longer.  Still, it was his right arm that was injured, and he's right-handed.  Three weeks of not being able to write or eat (it's hard to hold a pen or a fork very well when your entire lower arm is immobilized) taught him a lesson. We think.

     Comparatively, today's visit was pretty tame.  Knowing he would probably be there for awhile, I brought a book.  Greg dozed while the fluids dripped into his veins through the IV; I read The World is Flat by Thomas Friedman.  In fact, we had been in this particular situation before.  Fifteen years ago, Steve was hospitalized for dehydration brought on by a similar illness.  I brought a wide-eyed Greg to the hospital to visit his dad.  Taking note of the tubes running in and out of Steve's arm, Greg, then 3 years old, earnestly asked him, "Do you have fluids and liquids?"  Today it was Greg's turn to get the "fluids and liquids."  He winced a little when the nurse stuck the IV needle in his arm, but it was really no big deal.  After all, he's a pro.

Above photo:  Greg, age 4 or 5, in front of our house in the snow.

You Say You Want a Resolution

Q.  Which of the following poses the greatest threat to heavy people?

(A)  Heart disease

(B)  Diabetes

(C)  Cancer

(D)  Photography

Answer:  (D)

Yes, when you're overweight, the most terrifying thing you can experience is someone snapping your picture, especially before you have the opportunity to look around for something to hide behind.  Some of us have become very adept -- even creative -- at finding ways to camouflage our girth in a photo.  The above picture is a good example.  It was taken nearly ten years ago on the Plaza.  We took Greg out for his birthday, which naturally meant taking some pictures.  The "cow exhibit" was in place at that time, which made for several entertaining photo ops.  In this photo, I'm not only strategically hiding all but my face behind the "shuttlecock cow," I have the added benefit of my cute and precocious son posing in the foreground, drawing attention away from his heavy mom.  Ingenious, if I do say so myself!
     Nowadays, I could go even further and photoshop myself thinner.  Anyone who has seen the Dove ad in which a perfectly lovely model is photographed and photoshopped to look "even better" knows what I'm talking about.  The ad is meant to show how artificial the ideal of beauty is in this country  In fact, it doesn't exist . . . except in retouched photographs.  Unfortunately, we can't "retouch" or "photoshop" ourselves in real life.  We can hide behind objects and jockey for position so that our heaviness doesn't show in the photo. Believe me, I've done it myself, almost pushing people out of the way so I could be on the back row (now that I think about it, it almost seems like an oxymoron)!  We can have the photos cropped, edited, grey-scaled -- anything to alter our true appearance.  We can wear dark colors and baggy clothes in the mistaken belief that they will somehow make us look slimmer.

     But we can't hide the damage that lugging that weight around does to our bodies.  We all know about the increased risks of heart disease, stroke, diabetes, cancer, and a host of other serious medical problems -- but what about the risk of getting poor health care or even no health care at all?  A jaw-dropping article in the January/February 2010 issue of Health reports that overweight women "have a harder time getting health insurance (or pay higher premiums for their insurance); are at higher risk of being misdiagnosed or receiving inaccurate dosages of drugs; are less likely to find a fertility doctor; and are less likely to have cancer detected early and get effective treatment for it."  And that's just for starters.  Health magazine also reports a chilling find:  many doctors are biased towards overweight women.  In one survey some doctors admitted that seeing heavy patients was a waste of time:
      University of Pennsylvania researchers found that more than 50 percent of primary care physicians viewed obese patients as awkward, unattractive, and noncompliant; one third said they were weak-willed, sloppy, and lazy.  In addition, researchers at Rice University and the University of Texas School of Public Health in Houston found that as patient BMI increased doctors reported liking their jobs less and having less patience and desire to help the patient. 
     The article points out that overweight women who feel stigmatized may turn to food for comfort as a result of the stress from the stigma, thereby making the problem worse.  Overweight women are also more likely to delay doctors' appointments and preventive care -- including screening for cancer -- rather than face criticism.  More alarming, overweight women are less likely to receive heart catheterization procedures as well as organ transplants because of greater risk of complications.  Even routine screening procedures like pap smears, CT scans, and ultrasounds are made more difficult by the extra weight.  In one study, obese women were more likely to have false-positive results from mammograms, which can lead to unnecessary biopsies and anxiety. 
     I'm very lucky to have a kind, compassionate doctor who listens to me -- and who hasn't given up on me because of my weight.  To the contrary -- she stresses to me over and over her desire to see me lose the weight and improve my health.  I know that she has my best interests in mind, but, until I read this article, it hadn't really occurred to me that I could make her job easier -- and the quality of my care better -- by losing weight. 
     Losing weight isn't exactly a New Year's resolution for me -- it's an ongoing resolution, one that I've been working on in earnest since October.  As I stated in a previous posting, my ultimate goal is to lose 100 lbs by my 50th birthday.  That birthday is 11 months away.  I know -- 100 lbs is a pretty tall order in less than a year.  But even if I lose only half that much, I will have accomplished a lot.  That's my long term goal; my short term goal is to see my doctor smile at my next appointment.  Then maybe I'll have my picture taken -- standing next to a large object rather than behind it.  I'll keep you posted.

Snow Stories

     Take a look at the photo to the left.  That's my street, looking west.  You might expect that I took this photo today.  Nope.  It was taken on December 26, 2009.  Last month.  Last year.  Almost exactly two weeks ago.  And two weeks later, my street still looks like that, except there are 4-foot piles of snow lining the curbs where the snow plows have made a pass.  Oh, and that bit of pavement visible in the middle of the street?  Long since covered over.  We've had two more significant snows since Christmas Eve, adding more layers. Not only that, a plunge into single digit temperatures plus wind chills in the negative double digits has kept the snow in  place.

     I realize this is nothing compared to what folks are dealing with in the Upper Midwest, or, for that matter, what folks in the Northeast and mountain regions deal with every winter.  But for the same snow to stay on the ground for two weeks (and counting) in Kansas City -- not to mention the frigid temperatures and dangerous wind chills -- well, it's unusual to say the least. 

     As my husband's mother used to say, "It's real winter out there."  Real winter, indeed.  In the nearly forty years I've lived in Kansas, I don't recall another Christmas Eve blizzard like we had this year, and I can't remember snow lasting this long without a thaw.  But, despite the fairly mild winters we've had over the last decade, it's not unheard of to experience this much snow and an Arctic cold snap here in the middle of the country.  So, having been driven indoors by the blowing snow and bone-chilling air, I've had plenty of time to reminisce about other "real winters" in my life. 

     It's an old cliche:  In my day, we walked two miles to school through the snow -- uphill . . . both ways!  While it may be a bit of an exaggeration (okay, it's a myth), I would like to point out to the young people in my life that yes, they do in fact have it easier than we did!  Nowadays school districts cancel classes at the drop of a snowflake, it seems.  Certainly, this past week all school districts in metro Kansas City were forced to close due to several factors:  icy streets, bitter temperatures, and, I suspect, fear of lawsuits if anyone got hurt trying to get to school.  I'm not being critical -- it makes perfect sense.  Obviously school officials have learned over time that it's better to be safe than sorry.  I wish it had been so when I was in school.

     I remember one winter day my sophomore year in high school when a heavy snow was falling and blowing into drifts in the roads.  Was school cancelled?  Of course not!  Nobody cancelled school in the 70s -- for shame!  I lived at Ft. Leavenworth at the time and attended Leavenworth High, which was several miles from the post.  The bus was late arriving to pick us up (no surprise, given the road conditions); I recall waiting 25 minutes in the bitter cold.  Finally, the bus arrived.  We made one more pickup after my stop, then headed into town toward the school.  The usual route took us up a steep hill.  Now, taking into consideration there were no more stops along the way, plus the slick road conditions -- with snow blowing and drifting across the street -- you would think the bus driver would choose a different route, at least one a little more traveled.  You would be wrong.  The driver gamely headed up the hill as everyone on the bus nervously watched.  Halfway up the hill the bus slid off the road . . . and into a ditch.  We waited more than 30 minutes for another bus to come and pick us up.  When it arrived, it stopped at the top of the hill; the driver had been instructed to stay there rather than take a chance sliding downhill and getting stuck.  You guessed it -- all of us students were told to get off the bus and hike up the hill to the waiting bus.  So, when I say I walked uphill in the snow and bitter cold to school . . . I'm not kidding!
     Or how about driving over 200 miles in the snow to school?  I did that, too.  Well, technically, I was driving home from college through the snow.  I had driven a flute buddy and myself back to Manhattan, Kansas over Winter Break to play in the pep band for a K-State basketball game.  After we arrived in Manhattan, it started to snow; by the end of the game, travel was treacherous.  We decided to spend the night in Manhattan and drive back to Kansas City the next day. 
     The following day we headed east on I-70, which, due to blowing snow, was patchy at best.  Somewhere in the desolate No-Man's-Land of the Flint Hills, between Wamego and Topeka, we slid off the highway into the snow-filled median.  There were no exits, no buildings, no rest stops, not even any other traffic on the highway.  If I had been driving any other vehicle, we would have been stuck there for days (remember, kids, this was B.C. -- Before Cell phones).  But, as luck would have it, I was driving my parents' 1975 Oldsmobile Regency -- the only custom-built "luxury" car they ever owned.  It was silver gray with a plush velour interior, power steering, power brakes, power windows, and power seats.  By 1970s standards, it was just about the classiest car you could buy, short of a BMW.  It was very long and roomy, almost like being inside a limo.  It was a little like driving a limo, too -- the hood seemed to stretch all the way to the horizon. 
     By the early 80s, its glamour days were over, but the thing was built like a Sherman tank.  A few years later, my future husband would dub it the "S.S. Coble."  So, summoning my Army brat wits from a childhood spent in the military (having seen the movie "Patton" didn't hurt, either), I drove the S.S. Coble forward, slow and steady,  straight up the median until I found a relatively clear spot to re-enter the highway.  I gingerly steered onto I-70 and headed home.  Whenever I see an SUV spun out in the snow along the highway, I remember that day.  The S.S. Coble was a great big, clunky gas guzzler, but damn -- it sure could handle snow! 
     Fast forward to December, 1987.  I was a grad student at the University of Kansas, working toward my master's degree in music education.  Just my luck -- the day I had two major finals, it started snowing in the wee hours of the morning.  As dawn broke, the snow intensified, which is how I found myself driving to Lawrence at 7:30 am in blizzard-like conditions.  What was normally a 35-minute drive took nearly two hours as I drove no faster than 25 mph on westbound K-10, peering through the blinding snow -- visibility no more than about 30 feet -- all the while trying to keep my Toyota Tercel steady in the whipping wind.  My first final began at 9:00 am; I arrived at 9:15.  Dr. Radocy's jaw dropped when I walked in.  "I did not expect to see you here!  Now that's dedication!" he exclaimed.  But there I was, so he gave me a copy of the test.  I pulled out my blue book and ballpoint pen.  The final exam for his class was an essay test.  As I began to write, my hand wobbled; I struggled to hold the darned pen.  I realized that I had been gripping the steering wheel so hard during my torturous drive, my hand was shaking from the tension!  Somehow, I managed to write, and I even finished the exam 10 minutes early.  My handwriting looked pretty sloppy, but it must have been legible -- Dr. Radocy gave me an A!
     So there you have it -- the snow stories of my youth.  All of us "old folks" love to tell them.  They aren't cautionary tales so much as validation -- and proof of survival.  The advantage of age is that we've "been there, done that" and lived to tell about it.  And we lived to tell about it because we learned something from the experience.  Wisdom gained, which we can now pass along to the younger generation from safe inside our warm homes by the fire, with a cup of hot tea in our hands. 
     Because, kids, the point is this:  I already walked up that snowpacked hill in -10 wind chills to school -- now it's your turn!  What?  You say they cancelled school?  Another snow day? What a bunch of wimps!  What stories will you have to tell your grandkids?  Tell you what, get me another cup of tea, and I'll let you borrow one of mine.