I remember the Sunday paper.
I got it from the porch, rolled into a heavy log with a story inscribed in each ring, although I was far too young to be interested in them. Rather, I dug out the comics and we passed it around the family, chuckling to ourselves and waiting anxiously for each other to get to the punchlines we knew were coming so we could laugh together. It was a special little highlight of each week. For a time, our Sunday newspaper also featured a Magic Eye stereogram, and I marveled at how my dad seemed to possess the super-human ability to see the hidden 3D figure instantaneously every time. When all I saw were chaotic squiggles like static on a television screen, he saw animals, flowers, trees, hearts, faces floating in a sea of color. I was desperate to develop the skill, certain these Magic Eye prints in the paper held untold secrets to life. He taught me by holding the paper above me as I focused on the wall across the table, then lowering the paper in front of my face with gentle reminders not to let my focus shift. If we did it just right, something amazing reached out to me from the cluttered mess of meaningless shapes and lines. Maybe not the meaning of life, but something just as valuable to my 8-year-old self.
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When all the Match Day envelopes had been distributed and opened, the hugs of joy and pain exchanged, the tears dried (or at least temporarily held at bay), I said goodbye to my fiance and his family to drive to work. I was a part-time teacher at an elementary school where my day started at 11:30 am. I had just enough time to pull myself together and get to class before 25 4- and 5-year-olds showed up at my music room door where I Had to greet them with a smile and joy.
It's astonishing I even made it to work that day, considering the recklessness with which I drove. I could barely see through the tears that refused to stop for very long, and on the way I called my assistant principal to tell her the news. "So," she said, stealing a few minutes from the meeting she was in, "Do we get to keep you for another year?" "I'm going to Brooklyn" I said with an attempt at a laugh. "Oh..." |
AuthorNashira is a music teacher and proud Small-Town Jew who, after surthriving six years in Brooklyn for her husband's surgical residency, is finally back in Wisconsin where she belongs! At least until the end of the two-year surgical fellowship, that is. It's a wild ride, and she's ready to tell you all about it! Archives
September 2019
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