April 22, 2022--Day of Suggestive Programming
by Karen Schwabenland If you are watching television and they show a bunch of commercials about hamburgers, you can't help yourself. You are going to start craving hamburgers. And if you listen to a podcast and they say the word 'burger,' like fifteen times in a conversation, you will find yourself driving inexplicably to your local fast food joint. We used to call it having a Mac Attack. So today, I did it. But my methods were more than a sensory response. It is a clear springtime day around here, and if you go into any store, you will see workers scrambling to get the summer stock into display as quickly as possible. I wonder, would we notice the changing of the seasons if it weren't for the merchandising all around us? Walking past a display of grilling supplies and still craving a burger, I began to wax nostalgic. Soon I found myself sitting in a booth at my local Burger King. I like to do this once a year. I order a whopper and then sit down to enjoy it and my memories. In all of my life, I have never found a better burger that so closely resembles the ones my grandpa used to make on his grill. Oh, I have ordered burgers in the finest of restaurants, and you can have them all. I like me a Five Guys Burger and Fries just fine, but you can take your Smash Burger, your Burger Shack, and your Fuddruckers and all the other joints that try to raise the common hamburger to dine in restaurant status. None of those places really know what a burger should be. A hamburger should drip. That is how my grandpa's burgers always came out. Grandpa loved to grill. And this is the time of year that he would start his process. Burgers every other weekend at his place and on all the major holidays. Mother's Day--he was on the grill. Memorial Day--on the grill. Father's Day--it didn't matter that it was his day, he was on the grill. Fourth of July--grill. Labor Day--grill for the final wrap up of the burgering season. Grandpa was a serious burger meister, meister burger. Standing in his backyard, unnoticeable somewhat due to the smoke emitting from the pit, he was king of all he surveyed. That would be his complete backyard including the above ground swimming pool with a complimentary deck built by his own hands. If I were to admit it, I would say that above ground pool was largely put in place for my benefit. Nothing could beat a day splashing around in the pool, and then--just when you thought you would go crazy from hunger--getting called to come and load up your plate with burgers, pickles, chips, beans (always the beans), and potato salad. When you finally sat down and picked up your overstuffed burger for the first bite, it was already dripping out the sides. Burger King never gives you quite enough napkins to down a whopper without making a mess, but maybe that's just me. Most of Burger King's mess is caused by the the sauce and tomato that makes the moisture of the entire sandwich verge on the edge of uneatable. Grandpa's burgers were like that. If you eat a hamburger outside on a sunny day, you should run out of bun before you run out of meat. Today I scarfed down a whole whopper meal and honored my grandpa in the process. I like to think he was there with me. And on that note, I should go a sit a spell on my porch swing and honor my granny. Lemonade, anyone? April 9th, 2022--Slow Art Day
by Karen Schwabenland When I was teaching in the classroom one year, I had a student who reminded me of Arnold Horshack, a character on the old television series, "Welcome Back, Kotter." Arnold and my kid both shared the same enthusiasm for answering any and all questions. Like Arnold on the show, my student sat right in front of me (the teacher) in my classroom because he wanted to, not because I placed him there. If I had my way, I would have seated him in the back of the room. This year, the Khanenko Museum in Kyiv, Ukraine will host a Slow Art Day on line for obvious reasons. The above painting, a rarely exhibited piece of Chinese art, is the piece that is up for contemplation this year via the internet. Like the child in the art piece, my Arnold/student would answer correctly so frequently that he annoyed his classmates. They often would say, "Give someone else a turn." I would like to think that guy's enthusiasm for raising his hand had something to do with my teaching. But in truth I know it didn't. What is Slow Art Day? It is a day when museums around the world host an event for their patrons that encourages them to look deeply and thoughtfully at a piece of art. Sometimes, there is even lunch provided. But back to the art... The old man in the picture above could be a teacher. Because he is older, he gives off the vibe of wisdom. I was a young teacher when I taught my Arnold character. I had no wisdom. There was a time or two or--ten-- when I got annoyed with my student's enthusiasm, myself. Many years after I taught this student, I ran into him again. By then, he had grown into a middle aged man. We found each other at an event held at a nearby university. It was my retirement year of teaching, and much to my hesitation, I had grudgingly taken a group of students to an academic contest. We were between rounds of competition when another coach (that is what we instructors were called--even those of us who took the title a bit unwillingly) approached me and introduced himself. He asked if I was the same Karen Schwabenland who had taught sixth grade at such and such a school, and when we discovered that we knew each other, he reached out to hug me. He had become a teacher at a prestigious private school. Kudos for him. I wish I could say I had some influence in his career choice, but I don't think I did. He was cut out for the profession from the word go. Nothing ever got by that kid. Back in the classroom, if I was unprepared in the least, he could, and did, advise me on what we should do next. "Don't forget to ask for our homework," was something he frequently stage-whispered to me." He would then giggle to himself at his classmate's groans. At that event, you might say I got even with him for all of his over-the-top enthusiasm. You see, that weekend, the weekend of the academic tournament, I had come down with the flu. I should not have attended, but I had no one to replace me. None of my colleagues responded to a request to sub for me. I bundled up, got high on Tylenol, and told myself I would keep a safe distance from everyone. I had no way to know that an ex-student would seek me out and the give me a hug. When it happened we were in the hallway surrounded by rooms where the competition was going on. Others nearby had just been hushed by a sponsor of the event. Signs were posted to remain silent while standing near these rooms. What was I to do? I am dreadfully sorry that I may have passed the flu on to my ex-student, turned teacher. You could say we are now even. Speaking of which and related to the art piece, was I the yin to his yang? Well, back in the day, he certainly "yanged" my strings, so to speak. But maybe the above painting reminds me of something darker. On the surface I appeared all yin to my student, but deeper inside, I harbored resentment. Indignation at a child's eagerness is pretty dark and plenty petty. Rightfully, I carried displeasure at attending an event while also experiencing the flu that weekend. If you look at the old teacher fellow in the art piece long enough, his bemused smile turns into hatred and revenge. He could be thinking, "By God, I'll get you one day. I will get you, you irritating, spoiled, know-it-all, little kid." And so, eventually and likewise, that is what I did. April 2nd, 2022--World Autism Awareness Day
by Karen Schwabenland I remember the screaming. Every time they jabbed our baby with a needle, he screamed. Who could blame him? It was terrible. We followed the required immunization schedule for American infants and toddlers in the early 90s. Once, I made Mister take our son to the pediatrician for the check-up. They both returned like two battered soldiers from war--tired, worn, and fragmented. All Mister could manage to say was, "It's like a zoo in there." By my second child I began to grow accustomed to the screaming in the pediatrician's office. There was a long hallway with thin doors from which one could enter the examination rooms. As you were escorted to your tiny private cubicle, you could catch a glimpse inside other rooms where sick or healthy children waited for a verdict. A closed door meant the doctor was "in." If there wasn't screaming from within the walls of a closed door, there soon would be. As my children grew older, we managed to keep the same pediatrician with the same office space. As they aged, the space shrank in kind. I was a hold out for the doctor, keeping my son there as a patient until he was twenty-five years old. The doctor was oldish when we arrived at the beginning of our health journey, and he stayed the same for twenty-five years. I hadn't found this doctor or practice until my daughter arrived, however. Before her arrival, my son had another pediatrician, but I believe that the care and protocol would have been the same. Our fate was sealed after Baby Malone (our son) had his first Measles, Mumps, and Rubella (MMR) vaccine. I had been told that it was important for him to not have a cold when he was given that shot. He was in daycare, and it seemed that he was perpetually either at the beginning or the end of a cold or ear infection. We had postponed the vaccine three times. In the early spring of his second year, I took him to his then pediatrician for the shot. I had already cancelled three times. He had just had a cold, but was not running fever and his ears were clear. He got the shot. Of course he screamed. I was accustomed to it by then, but clearly he was not. I took him home in the afternoon, fed him, and put him down for a nap. And then he slept and slept. And slept some more. After four hours, Mister was home and we decided to wake up Baby Malone. He awoke and let us hold him, but he would go right back to sleep in our arms. It was excessive sleep for his young age. The longest nap he took at that time was two hours, but usually, an hour to and hour and a half was the amount of time he spent day sleeping. He was two years old. I called the pediatrician after six hours of sleeping. Of course I got the answering service, as it was after dinner time by then. A colleague of our regular doctor eventually called us back. "I'm worried about my baby," I said into the phone. "He got his MMR vaccine today, and he's been sleeping for six hours." "Does he awaken when you try to wake him up," asked the doctor. "Well, yes, he wakes up, but he goes right back to sleep," I replied. "As long has you can wake him up, it's perfectly normal," said the doctor. "If you can't wake him up, then call us back. Good-night." Perfectly normal. It didn't seem right. That night our son slept for sixteen hours, counting the afternoon nap. He awoke the next day hungry and seemed normal for the wear and tear his brain must have gone through. After that, there were milestones that he reached late. We went to through three kindergarten classrooms in a six week period. I am not anti-vax, at least not politically, anyway. But there had to be something. There had to be something that happened during that fateful day and night after he received his first MMR vaccine. Our lives were certainly never the same. Richer for the trouble, probably. But not the same. And not neurotypical. I broke up with our long time pediatrician in a sad and negative way. My children had outgrown his office. As much as I respected the man, he asked me to explain my hesitancy to vaccines when the question of the HPV vaccine was posed for my daughter. Don't worry, eventually I let her decide and she got it, all three doses. That day, in our pediatrician's office, I tried to articulate the story I have written here, but my words were muddled. I sounded defensive. Then again, the doctor did too. Surprisingly, this old trusted soul was not on my side. Baby Malone had not been vaccinated on his watch. I wish he had been, though, even it the result would be the same. |
AuthorKaren Schwabenland--Keeper of a daily blog of written matter, reporter of events large and small, and charlatan extraordinaire Archives
September 2022
Categories |