I scrambled onto the checkout line at the home improvement store behind a man holding about fifty of the same outlet cover. This would be fast. The cashier should enter one, then say “Sir, how many of these do you have?” input the quantity and hit total. I’d be next.

The cashier lifted one and passed it over the scanner.

Beep.

What happened next was so far away from how I’d imagined it that I almost needed a taxi to get there.

She lifted another and repeated the process.

Beep. Then a third. Beep.

My shoulders tensed. The cashier was merely a teenager, perhaps a new hire. Was this larger quantity situation a first? Maybe her training had overlooked the method I’d considered. A familiar anxious twirl circled in my gut, the wind-up before the pitch during the moment when words exit my mouth which shouldn’t.

“Excuse me,” I finally said.

She looked up.

“Can’t you just scan one then put in the total quantity?”

The customer with the outlet covers nodded in solidarity. But his tight lips suggested he wasn’t going to utter a single word to help plead my case. The cashier tucked one side of her long straight hair behind an ear and gave me a stare so cold it could have made ice shiver.

As the mother of two teenage daughters, her silent gawk left me undaunted. “You could enter fifty items at $3.50 each, and the register will calculate the total amount.”

Her lips twitched. “No, ma’am. I have to do each one.”

She scanned the fourth one. Beep.

The man behind me exhaled a weary sigh.

I turned to him. “Just a recommendation. If you ever see me in a line again, head for a different one.”

“Let me know where you’ll be going next,” he grumbled.

It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened to me. And this time, like all the others, I gritted my teeth, thought about everything else I needed to get done that day and waited out the transaction.

I’ve been born with the uncanny ability – whether at McDonald’s, the supermarket or the bank – to consistently make the wrong choice when it comes to any type of check-out situation. And I never take them in stride.

I sigh, tap my foot and pass nervous glances at other lanes to see if a strategic switch is in order. I watch the lucky ones on the line next to me zip through fast and problem-free. Do they have a sixth sense for the speedy queue? Each incident leaves me tense and frustrated.

But two days after the outlet-cover incident, during a long overdue routine medical check-up, I received some humbling news.

Glancing over his half-framed reading glasses, my doctor said. “You suffer from hypertension. High blood pressure.”

His grave expression made me nervous. “How bad is it?”

“It’s waaaaay too high. Have you been feeling stressed lately?”

“No.” I said with a defensive clip. “Well, no more than usual.” The encounter from two days earlier was still fresh in my thoughts. “Guess I do get aggravated easily.”

“That’s not good.” He shook his head, a silent tsk. “What’s going on?”

Nothing new, I thought. But maybe, now that I was over fifty, my body was sending me a message. A little hint it didn’t have the wherewithal to get so hot and bothered over every little thing.

“I suppose I don’t handle stress well,” I admitted.

“Hmmm. Well, first, we need to put you on medication.” He grabbed the prescription pad, scribbled something and handed it to me.

Then, without a word, he began jotting notes on a second prescription sheet. Anxious and curious as to what he was writing, my leg jiggled against the examination table.

He tore it off. “This is just as important as the medication. You need to learn to relax.”

I studied his note. Count to ten. Take a yoga class. Exercise. Think big picture. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

“I don’t have time to do yoga,” I said, aggravated by yet another thing to add to my to-do list. “And I know how to relax. Besides, shouldn’t the medication alone fix the prob-” I stopped when it hit me; he was right.

He pointed to the first item on the list, and I nodded. “One, two, three…”

Oddly, it worked. I returned home with a renewed attitude; confident that with age (and hypertension) comes some newfound wisdom. And it started with a new outlook at the one situation which I seemed to have the least control; my lane holdups.

Now, the stretches of time I spend waiting to check-out at a store or make my bank deposit are referred to it as my newfound “free” time. When delayed, I skim a magazine where I catch up on the latest celebrity gossip, memorize a new recipe or catch a few tips on how to “spice it up” in the bedroom.

Or I scan the impulse purchase end cap where I assess my household’s battery and lip moisturizer needs.

Sometimes, I consider the rates on six month certificates of deposits and calculate how much interest I might make.

In fact, I’ve decided maybe it’s my destiny to be there, to take a second to enjoy the view, to breathe, to relax and not take such an insignificant moment in life so seriously.

This more Zen-like approach has brought me a surprising measure of peace which had been missing before. After all, why am I in such a big hurry? Even if I have an important destination, what’s the worst that could happen? Will stock markets crash, governments crumble or anarchy develop across the nation? Not likely.

So now, if you do find yourself delayed on a line one day, look around. If you see me there, tap me on the shoulder. We’ll do some relaxation breathing together.

Several years ago, when my power mower had broken down, I found an old push mower in the garage and decided to give it a whirl. The quiet whoosh of the blades and the smell of freshly cut grass took me back to my childhood, and I’ve been happily sweating over that old grass cutter ever since. One day last June while pushing the relic through a thick carpet of green, I stopped dead in my tracks. There on the ground was a baby starling that had fallen from its nest. It barely moved as I scooped it up and carried it into the house.

“We can try to keep it alive,” I explained to my wife, “but there’s probably a ninety percent chance that it won’t make it. So I don’t want you getting too attached to this bird. There’ll be no cute little names. No pampering. We’re going to try to keep it alive. And if this bird does make it, we’re letting him go. He’s wild and deserves to be set free.”

My wife agreed. Completely.

The next day I picked up a dozen books on bird care from the library. “Raising an orphan bird can be quite rewarding,” one book stated. “With care, patience and time, you can see nature develop before your very eyes.” I was encouraged. “With proper feeding and environment, your little friend will soon be able to be set free.” It all sounded so simple…until I reached the last line. “Of course, without the proper example of other birds, this fledgling will stand little chance of survival in the wild.”

“Just what does that mean?” my wife asked.

“In bird lingo, it means his goose is cooked,” I replied.

By the end of the second day, I broke my own rule and began calling the baby bird “the Cheeper” because of the sound he made when he was hungry, which was every fifteen minutes. This baby bird ate like a horse. So when I wasn’t feeding him, I was crushing hardboiled eggs, grinding parakeet food, mixing sugar water, and cleaning the Cheeper’s towel-lined shoebox home.

Cheep, cheep, cheep.

Two weeks later, the Cheeper was not only surviving, but growing feathers and attempting to fly out of his box. I called a local nature group and explained the situation.

“You can’t keep that bird! You don’t know what you’re doing with birds. Bring him to us. Now!” a woman’s voice screeched. Where had I heard that voice before? Then I remembered. She sounded just like the Wicked Witch of the West. “We’ll get you…and your little birdie too!”

I called a second group. This time a kindly voice suggested that I bring the Cheeper to their animal rescue facility, where they would take care of him, have him socialize with other birds, and then return him to us to release. It was like sending him off to college. We enrolled him.

One month later, we returned to find our cute little Cheeper transformed into a fully grown starling that didn’t look very happy to see two strangers peering into his cage. Nevertheless, we took him home, deciding to release him on Independence Day. We opened the cage and in an instant, he was gone.

“And he didn’t even remember us,” my wife lamented.

After three hours, we were still sulking on the front porch, when we heard the sound of fluttering wings. We looked up to see…the Cheeper! He landed on my shoulder and jumped onto my wife’s head. Cheep, cheep, cheep. He flitted about us, dancing a feathery little jig before he flapped his wings and…was on his way. It was a kind of farewell thank you, I guess.

Although we haven’t seen the Cheeper since the summer, I haven’t given up hope. So if you happen to see a bearded man and a curly haired woman calling up to the treetops and whispering into the shrubbery, “Cheeper? Cheeper? Is that you, Cheeper?” we haven’t lost our marbles. We’re just missing our bird.

“Your balance is $24.86,” the grocery store clerk said.

The woman’s mouth dropped open. “But I just slid my card through. I shouldn’t owe anything.” She put her hand on her hip and said, “I need to see a manager.”

I fought the urge to sigh. I was the next one in line, and I was in a hurry. I debated finding another check-out lane, but I’d already put my purchases on the conveyor belt.

The woman behind me caught my eye and smiled. “It looks like it might be a while.”

“He’s not good at waiting,” I said, gesturing toward my three-year-old son, Nathan.

The woman smiled. “I remember those days.” She tilted her head toward her own son. “He’s eight now, so it’s less of a problem.”

“What’s a problem?” The little boy asked with a toothless grin.

I smiled back and said, “This is Nathan, and he doesn’t like to wait. He’s going to be a total wiggle worm in just a second.”

“Oh, well, I’m Jimmy, and I’m a wiggle worm too. Can I play with Nathan?”

I nodded and watched as Nathan allowed Jimmy to look at the Thomas the Train toy he’d brought with him.

I smiled at Jimmy’s mom and said, “Hopefully this won’t take too long.”

She nodded. “And hopefully, Jimmy and Nathan can keep one another entertained while we wait.”

The boys played with Nathan’s train for a few minutes, but just as I feared, Nathan’s wiggle worm tendencies kicked in. After checking with Jimmy’s mom, I handed each boy a lollipop, hoping to buy a few more minutes.

While we stood there, I kept waiting for the woman in front of me to apologize for the wait. I would have felt bad for holding up the line, but it didn’t seem to faze her.

A full ten minutes later, the manager finally arrived. I knew I was on borrowed time with Nathan’s patience level and hoped the situation could be resolved quickly. But when the manager found out what the problem was, the situation only got worse.

“You can’t use a food stamp card to buy candy,” the manager explained.

“But it’s Christmas candy,” the woman said. “Don’t my kids deserve to have candy in their stockings?”

I sighed and heard Jimmy’s mom do the same. My attitude was going downhill fast.

“Everyone knows you can’t buy candy with a food stamp card,” I muttered and rolled my eyes at Jimmy’s mom. “Why is this woman wasting our time?”

The manager just shrugged. “Yes, of course your kids deserve to have candy at Christmas, but you’ll have to use cash to pay for it.”

The woman’s hand went back to her hip. “I don’t have any money. I only have this food stamp card, and I want to use it to buy this candy for my kids.” Her voice cracked for just a second before the defiant look returned.

“Ma’am, I don’t make the rules,” the manager said, “but I do have to enforce them.”

“Then put the candy back,” she snapped. “I’ll just tell my kids that the rules made sure they had empty Christmas stockings.”

“Empty stockings?” Jimmy said with wide eyes. “Who’s going to have empty stockings?”

Jimmy’s mom looked at me. How can you explain food stamps and bureaucratic rules to an eight-year-old boy?

She whispered to him for a minute, but the wide eyed look didn’t go away.

“But what about Santa?” Jimmy said.

The woman looked right at Jimmy and gave him a small, sad smile. “Santa hasn’t been to my house since my husband died,” she said quietly.

I swallowed and exchanged a guilty look with Jimmy’s mom. Jimmy, of course, focused more on the lack of Santa than the lack of a husband.

Jimmy turned back to his mom. “Can I just pay for her candy? I mean, if Santa doesn’t come and the lady doesn’t have any money, then her kids won’t have any candy, and that would be really sad.” He grabbed his mom’s hand. “Please, Mom? I can use my birthday money.”

I felt tears spring to my eyes as I watched Little Jimmy beg his mom to let him spend his birthday money on candy for kids he didn’t know. His kindness made me feel ashamed of my own behavior. I was in a hurry, and the poor woman in front of me had been nothing more than an inconvenience.

But an eight-year-old boy saw her as a real person. He put himself in her kids’ shoes and offered to help. I could hardly believe my own hypocrisy. It hadn’t been too many Christmases ago that I myself had been a struggling single mom. I’d walked a day in that woman’s shoes, and yet I’d judged her without even knowing her.

I reached into my purse and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. Jimmy’s mom tapped me on the shoulder and I passed her money to the woman as well.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “About your husband…and my attitude.”

The woman’s tough façade cracked before my eyes. “Thank you,” she murmured. “My kids thank you too.”

The woman used our money to pay for her kids’ Christmas candy, and before she left, she turned to smile at Jimmy’s mom and me. “Thank goodness for people like you,” she said.

And thank goodness for kids like Jimmy, who make the world a better place, even at eight years old.

I am blessed with wonderful memories of living and working in different parts of the country. Having lived two-thirds of my years in the Deep South and one-third on the central Eastern Seaboard, working in the Southwest, the Pacific Northwest, the Northeast and the West Coast provided me a new perspective of our country: areas which were still rugged around the edges, not yet completely tamed by man. I began jotting down snippets about my adventures in my new surroundings and later converted them to Word documents. Last evening, I ran across a forgotten electronic folder entitled Journal Entries. It had 10 entries made over a 6-year time span, from Maine to South Dakota to New Mexico and points in between. I’m thankful I made these “journal” entries. When I read them today, it was like opening a gift from the woman I was then to the woman I am now – my memories, a gift from the past.

***

Wednesday August 27, 2003 – Casco Bay, Maine

It’s my off day today and it’s perfect. It’s 10:15 am, and I have no desire to be anywhere else in the world. Nowhere! I’m sitting on the deck of a ferry hopscotching from island to island across the Casco Bay. My bike is secured below on the freight deck, and I’m on my way to an adventure: exploring Great Chebeaque Island, the outermost island in Casco Bay.

The ferry is headed north, the wind is out of the west and the sun is at mid-morning position in the east. There is a slight chop on the water and the combination of the height of the wave with the angle of the sun produces a pattern on the water of gulls in flight – silver gulls. Hundreds, then thousands of flickering, silver gulls as the eye moves toward the horizon in the east. Just before the horizon, the silver gulls all meld into one vast mirrored surface.

The day is singing, and my heart joins right in – I may not recall the words my heart sang in my younger days, but I remember the tune. I want to remember this morning forever. I thought I’d forgotten how it felt to be truly “in the moment” – I was afraid I had become a woman anesthetized by the rush, rush of modern life to the point I couldn’t feel beauty. Thank God, I still can. For some, the ability to feel beauty IS joy.

I push my bike off at the dock at Chebeaque and ride to the northern tip of the island to have lunch at the Old Chebeaque Inn constructed in 1924. This “new” hotel replaced the one built in the 1800s, which burned in 1920. The white wood frame structure is three stories with a veranda (that’s what they call a covered porch in Maine) running the entire length of the building and wrapping around both ends. The dining room faces the harbor, but there are only a few patrons.

Maybe they heard the menu is a piece of fiction. Neither of my first two menu choices is available: all I can get is a hamburger. However, the disappointment with the lunch fare is quickly dispelled by the fascination of sitting on the veranda of that old hotel with a glass of wine listening to music from the 1940s. How historically fitting as Casco Bay was the U.S. North Atlantic Fleet’s refueling center during WWII – the last stop for fuel before crossing the Atlantic Ocean. German U-Boats lurking close to the bay entrance sank an untold number of U.S. ships, and the locals have lots of stories about these times and the red horizon lines at night. U.S. losses were never publicized.

Even though I cannot see them on the veranda, I can feel the long-ago presence of young servicemen in uniform escorting pretty young ladies in feminine summer dresses and sling-back pumps. Everyone is smoking Luckies or Camels. My fantasy even has sound effects: lots of laughter and ice tinkling in glasses. The couples dance – not fast dancing, but very slow and with bodies very close. Even an imaginary spectator can sense their electric sense of urgency: they are temporary people in a temporary situation. It’s a very haunting experience, even if self-fabricated. I won’t forget it.

After lunch, I explore the hotel’s first floor nooks and crannies and find a collection of yellowed sheet music stacked behind the glass doors of an old wooden bookcase. One piece is entitled “The Rose of a Navy Man” (was the rose a tattoo or a woman?) along with other titles I have never heard before. The piano and bench were all that was salvaged from the 1920s fire. Had this sheet music been stored in the bench? The collection had to date back to World War I or even earlier. I carefully fold the ancient paper and replace it in the bookcase.

I hate to leave, but there is a ferry to catch and I’m not a strong swimmer.

***

A 2011 update on The Chebeaque Island Inn: The grand old dame was completely renovated in 2005 and enjoys a five-star historical hotel rating as well as a #11 ranking of the top 50 small hotels in America. I went back in 2007, but it was closed for some unknown reason. All I could do was peep into the first floor lobby windows. The common areas looked upscale English Country Estate. But I missed the slightly worn carpets, the rump sprung chairs and old books on the shelves. I do hope they didn’t trash the old telephone switchboard, it was a classic. Someday I want to go back, sit on the veranda, have a glass of wine and find out if the spirits of the servicemen and the young women of WWII return – or whether the renovations removed the power of their memories to draw them back to this place. For me, I must go back.

Don’t you hate it when you forget things? I’ve noticed an increase in that problem lately, and since I’m a Baby Boomer approaching Geezerdom, it’s especially worrisome. Oh, I don’t forget serious things – I rarely call my dog by my son’s name, and I do remember my wedding anniversary – but little stuff often seeps from my brain like air from a tire with a slow leak. Things like…what was the name of the star of that movie? And what was the movie’s name anyhow? And why did I go upstairs? It seems the only way to remember is to retrace my steps.

This past weekend I was getting ready to go to a meeting of my writers’ group. My husband, Bob, sat in his recliner, reading, while I showered, dressed and prepared to leave. I brought my notebook downstairs and…oops…I’d forgotten my cell phone, charging on my nightstand. I dashed back up to get it. As I descended, Bob looked up, smiled, and went back to his book. Then I realized that I’d meant to pick up the pages I’d planned to take with me. Back upstairs to fetch those from the printer. Back downstairs my husband looked up, raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. The third time up was to get a newspaper article I’d clipped to share with the rest of the group and left on my desk – in full view, right by the printer, where I couldn’t possibly forget it.

This time Bob stared at me and shook his head.

I heard his thoughts and answered, “The reason I haven’t gained any weight is that I spend my days going up and down the stairs, fetching things I’ve forgotten.”

A wise man, he refrained from commenting on that statement.

That’s when it occurred to me that I might be onto something – something I’m calling the Boomer Exercise/Memory Program – or BEMP for short.

I thought of how many calories people of a certain age burn every day when they’re retracing their steps to retrieve forgotten items. Misplaced Kindles, grocery lists, checkbooks – our trips back and forth and back again to retrieve those things add up to an amazing number of steps, especially for Boomers who live in two-story houses. I’m sure I’ve burned thousands of calories just searching for my eyeglasses alone, both from the steps I’ve taken and from the frustration of trying to find the aid I need for seeing – when I can’t see to find it.

And that’s just at home. There are my walks up and down the aisles of the grocery store, trying to remember the one item I drove there to get but that won’t reveal itself. Was it some kind of fresh vegetable? Should I be looking in the bakery section? Or maybe we’re out of toilet paper? I’ll confess that I’ve called my husband more than once to see if he can give me clues as to why I’m wandering around Safeway. (His cell phone number is programmed into mine. Otherwise, I know I’d never be able to recall it.) Those are definitely BEMP calorie-burning moments.

Then there’s the search of the parking lot for my car. Pushing an over-laden cart up and down rows of almost identical silver Honda and Toyotas and Chevys – clicking the remote entry gadget, hoping the car will blink its headlights and beep to reveal its hiding place in the herd – that results in more exercise. A friend wishes someone would invent a car that comes when called or that she’d tied a red helium balloon to the door handle when parking. Good ideas, but the car-hunt exercise has the positive effect of increasing BEMP numbers in both the steps-taken and frustration categories.

As you can see, applications of this program are endless. And this morning I discovered scientific research that takes my BEMP idea a step further. An article in Science News magazine, published earlier this year, touts the advantages of exercise for seniors as a way of actually improving memory function. To quote from the article:

“A year of moderate exercise doesn’t just bulk up muscles – it beefs up the brain, too, a new study finds…Study participants who got their heart rates up performed slightly better on a memory test and had higher levels of a brain-aiding molecule called BDNF, the researchers found…This whole idea that something as simple as exercise can actually benefit the brain and offset some of the changes that occur with normal aging is an emerging frontier – that’s what’s exciting about it.”

It seems that in a twisted sort of way, forgetting things (and the resulting exercise needed to find the things you’ve forgotten) can help your brain remember!

I’ve decided to send details of my BEMP program to AARP and maybe to Doctor Oz. Perhaps the retiree group will feature me in their magazine, or Oprah’s esteemed diet guru may invite me to be guest on his TV show. I’ll contact them this afternoon, if I can just remember where I put their email addresses….

Science News link:
http://www.sciencenews.org/index/generic/activity/view/id/69370/title/Aerobic_exercise_boosts_memory

The mailing envelope sits on the table in front of me, open and empty. My cell phone, five years old now, lies next to the envelope, but I can’t bring myself to put it inside. I don’t know why I hesitate over this last step because really, the hard work is already done.

A month ago, I decided to buy an iPhone. It’s my first smartphone, and it’s about time. My old phone is so small that everyone, upon seeing it, would say one of two things: “How do you open it?” and “How do you text on that thing?”

But I loved it, as much as a person who doesn’t really like talking on the phone or texting could actually love a phone, I suppose. The phone suited me: Small. Compact. Simple – with no bells and whistles – but functional, with several handy hidden features.

And yet, I envied those iPhone owners with their fancy gadgets packaged in nifty cases. I envied the iPhone’s amazing functions, and I soon began to worry that I was being left behind. So one day, when I came across a deal that I couldn’t resist, I bought an iPhone. That part wasn’t so bad. The hard part was getting rid of my old cell phone, which I had to send back, all my information erased, in order to get a rebate on the iPhone.

I’ve always had an above-average tendency to attach myself to objects. I slept with a teddy bear until I was 16, I put 200,000 miles on my first car, and sometimes it’s hard for me to throw away a toothbrush (I’m only sort of kidding on that last one). You could say that these attachments are my way of keeping constants in my life, my way of feeling secure or safe or comfortable. And that would all be true. But it’s also about holding on to, and remembering, my past.

I do this in the obvious ways, too: photographs and journals, videos and scrapbooks. I think about the reasons I feel a strong need to document my life, and I always come back to the same thing: I don’t want to forget.

My childhood best friend can recount entire conversations we had in 3rd grade; meanwhile, it’s a coup if I can remember what she and I talked about yesterday. It’s not as if I have no long-term memory; there’s a lot I remember about my childhood. But so much of it comes from photographs and the retelling of stories. These are my memories. All the rest – all the stuff that made up my day-to-day life, all the details – they’re lost. And that makes me kind of sad.

But what happens when some things are lost forever, and the memories are all we have? I’ve given this a lot of thought lately. My best friend, David, died last year. Days after his death, in a panic, I began writing down everything about him that I could remember. I saved digital photos of him to at least three different places, and printed out hard copies as well. I searched through the archives of my email, and read through every message he ever sent me, imagining what his voice would sound like if he spoke the words.

His voice: I had saved a voicemail he left for me a few months before he died, and every 21 days, as my phone’s messaging system asked if I wanted to delete the message, I would listen to it again, and press “9” to resave.

Every 21 days for nearly a year I listened to this message, until I decided to buy a new phone. Almost desperately, I asked the salesclerk if I could transfer my saved voicemails onto the new phone, and his words hit me like a dead weight, square in the chest: “No, I’m sorry; all messaging is erased in the transfer. We can’t save voicemails.”

I went home and rethought the decision to buy a new phone, telling myself I didn’t really need a Smartphone, telling myself that my old phone worked just fine. And it did.

But here’s the thing. I knew that I couldn’t hold onto that phone forever. The voice inside the phone? It was David’s voice, but it wasn’t David. Keeping that phone wouldn’t keep David with me.

And so, I did the only thing I could think to do: with my camera, I took a video of my cell phone as it played David’s voicemail. The audio is a bit muffled, but I was able to record his voice.

I don’t listen to that recording every 21 days. In fact, I haven’t listened to it in months. I understand that my memories of David will begin to fade – in fact, they already have. I spent months battling that inevitability, trying everything in my power to keep David’s memory alive and fully present. But finally time – and a new cell phone – helped me to store my memories in a place where they belonged. I began to accept that some things would be lost and forgotten, but also that there would be some things I’d always remember. And it is this acceptance and understanding that will allow me to move beyond my past, and steadily into my future.

At this moment, my old cell phone is still sitting on the table, next to the open envelope. The voicemails are gone, the texts are wiped clean, the photos erased. It no longer stores my memories, and I no longer need it to. I’m ready to fill a new phone with new memories. But every once in awhile, I will find that video of David’s muffled voice, and I will listen to it. Because there are some memories that I will always keep.

“A 65!” I think to myself. “How could he have gotten a 65 on this assignment?” Perplexed, I flip through the stack of eleventh grade vocabulary quizzes. Then I realize that I graded my answer key. Again.

This happens to me at least once a year. What concerns me is that it is starting to happen a little earlier each year. I am feeling the way I usually do right before spring break, and it is only December.

Today is Wednesday, December 14th to be exact. We have two more days of school until we dismiss for winter break. So, I arrive at school at

7:10 am, fifteen minutes before administration requires us to be here. It is my plan to catch up on some e-mails before 2nd block begins.

“Mrs. Face, you have a call on line one,” the receptionist announces across the intercom. “Mrs. Face, line one.” I pick up the phone and listen as a parent explains why her child did not have his research paper yesterday. The excuse is legitimate, so I tell her to have him hand it in first thing tomorrow. She is happy with my response, and we say our goodbyes.

As I am walking back to my work area, the bell rings. I rush to my classroom so that it will at least appear that I am prepared for my students. As they file into the room, my co-teacher and I get them settled and explain the day’s assignments.

While the students are working, my co-teacher and I discuss plans for the rest of the day. We briefly chat about student progress, a meeting that we both must attend, and our student who is currently suspended. Then, we divide the graded work so we both know what we will need to accomplish during break.

Throughout the day, I keep trying to get back to my desk. And when I finally do, instead of actually crossing items off my to-do list, I keep adding new ones. Johnny’s mom needs to talk to me about the zero he received for a class work grade. Ariel needs a letter of recommendation for her college application. Mark wants me to sign his field trip form. Everyone needs something. I need the 2:30 pm bell to ring.

I love teaching. If I were not teaching, I’m not sure what else I would be doing. But despite my love of my subject area, my students and my co-workers, I feel totally depleted. So, at the end of the day, I drag my laptop, my bag of student work and my exhausted body out to the parking lot. I head home in hopes of getting a few hours of sleep before I have to do it all over again.

There are days when many teachers question their value. Some argue that we are the most underappreciated profession in America. It is a valid argument. And in recent years, our class sizes continue to increase, our resources decrease, and our paychecks remain stagnant. We have not received a raise since 2008. But, we keep doing what we do best: teaching.

It is Thursday, December 15th, and once again, I arrive at school early. I want to distribute some sugar cookies to my co-workers and bag up a few for my seventh block students. It will be a nice surprise for them.

When I walk into my work area, there is a card on my desk. My name is written on the front, but the handwriting is unfamiliar. I open it and read the writing. “Mrs. Face, Thank you for always being there. Thank you for keeping me in check and for getting me out of high school. Love, Rachel.”

Rachel is one of my former students. She graduated last year and is now taking classes at a community college and working as a nursing assistant at an elder care facility. She is doing very well for herself, and she made an effort to thank me for the role I played in her success.

Tonight I will write her back. After I grade a stack of research papers, e-mail a few parents and finish my January lesson plans, I will write a quick note to Rachel. I want to thank her for helping me remember why I teach.

My husband’s sister, Linda, was the free spirit of the family. While the older sister, Barbara Jean, was dutifully cleaning up the kitchen, she would holler, “Linda! It’s your turn to dry the dishes!” Linda could be heard, but not seen, serenely tucked into the high branches of the maple tree in the back yard, giggling at her sibling’s admonition. “Linda! I’m gonna tell Mama!” The recriminations were fruitless. Linda would not reappear from her hiding place until the chores were done. Hatred of household duties would stay with her throughout life.

Linda was the rebel in the family as a child; she protested mandatory family visits on Sunday afternoons, often attempting to slide across the car seat and out the other door when her father forced the issue. It wasn’t that she was unhappy with her family – it was just the idea that horseback riding with one of her friends was more appealing. In fact, both her siblings and her school friends describe her as a happy, good-natured girl, even-tempered with a ready smile. Her sunny nature remained a true constant because few of her acquaintances in her personal life or business life ever saw her lose her temper.

She was the only child who moved more than twenty minutes from home, and for a few years she and her first husband lived in Australia. Now around here, that’s really leaving home. Linda’s energetic, independent spirit led her to a whirlwind type of existence far beyond the scope of the childhood farm. While she was working at a bank, she and another friend saw the need for a temp agency in their area. They saved their money, put together a proposal and went to the bank for a loan. They were in business.

The company they started was innovative in that it gave temporary workers, mostly women, benefits and decent wages. In six months, they were operating in the black. The company outgrew its office space several times in the first few years, until Linda and her partner built their own building for their headquarters. The company expanded with a branch in New York City, which Linda personally oversaw with visits at least once a week. She became the master of packing the carry-on bag.

My husband’s family was aware that Linda was successful, but mostly unaware as to the extent of her success. We listened to her company’s ads on the radio in the morning, and we were pleasantly surprised to hear that her company was named to the Fortune 500 list. One of the reasons for this was her own sense of modesty. When she attended family functions, she inquired about her nieces and nephews, old neighbors and high school friends. When asked about her business, she would simply reply, “It’s doing fine.”

One Sunday, Linda had invited all of her brothers and sisters and their families to her house for lunch. Her older sister, Barbara Jean, made the comment, “Well, I am glad this week is over. I have been washing windows, and I am worn slam out.” Knowing of Linda’s lifelong hatred of housekeeping, she then asked, “Have you washed your windows this fall?”

Linda replied, without missing a beat, “Nope. When they get so dirty I can’t see through them, I’ll just buy a new house!” We all enjoyed a good laugh, because although Linda’s house was spotless, we all knew it wasn’t because of her elbow grease.

One day, on one of her rare Sunday visits to the family farm, she made an announcement, “I’m retiring. I’m selling my half of the company.” And so she did. With some of the proceeds from her sale, Linda bought a duplex in a nearby beach area. She kept half the duplex for herself and rented out the other half. She called each brother and sister and told us all, “You can use this place anytime I’m not there. Just call and check.” We did. My daughters and I used the beach house several times. It was just a short walk to the ocean, and it was on a peaceful stretch of the beach, away from the boardwalk and the masses of people.

A few years later, Linda made another announcement, “I’m selling the condo at the beach, and I’m buying a house on Sanibel Island, Florida.” Once again, she was extremely generous with offers for us to use the house. My brother-in-law and sister-in-law both visited with her down there, and we all knew the door was open if we wished to visit.

Upon retirement, Linda took up painting. She took lessons at a local art gallery, and soon she began to show her work. Once again, her imagination and creativity brought her success. During this time, she was also a volunteer with the American Red Cross, serving on their board, as well as serving on the board of her alma mater, a well-respected private university. She donated countless time and money to these two organizations. She was also the first female Rotary member in her region, not because of any espoused feminist cause, simply because of a desire to support their mission.

One day, about four years ago, we got a phone call from my sister-in-law, Barbara Jean. Linda’s husband had called with news that she was sick, and he was flying her home from Florida to run some tests. A few days later, the doctors delivered the diagnosis – pancreatic cancer. This was a known enemy in my husband’s family; it had taken Granddad’s life in just a few months several years before. The progression of Linda’s disease was just as swift as Granddad’s. In a few months, at the age of 60, she was gone.

Even in her last days on this earth, her generosity and strength of spirit left us amazed. Never having had children of her own, she had left the bulk of her estate to her husband, her brothers and her sister, but she made special provisions for a few friends. One of her friends had never owned a home; Linda left her enough money to buy a house. An animal lover all of her life, she bequeathed the local animal shelter a substantial sum of money. Her husband saw to her special requests, including the gifts of her paintings to her family and a local foundation. Even after her death, the sale of Linda’s paintings helped renovate an old school that now houses a library, an art gallery, classrooms, a piano studio and an auditorium.

Her gravestone bears the image of her artist’s palette, and a rainbow, which represents her favorite song, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Under her name and dates are engraved the words, “She Painted the World with Kindness,” an epitaph proffered by my daughter. “How perfect,” we all thought. That is exactly what she did.

Daisy was a cross between a Dalmatian and a Beagle. Black and brown spots spattered her short, white hair like a Jackson Pollack canvas. Dark lashes framed her amber brown eyes. She crossed her long legs at the paw and ate her food daintily like the lady she was. We adopted her from a Connecticut Animal Rescue.

“…And to think we saved you,” my daughter would scold when Daisy did something naughty and ungrateful like chewing her best flip flops or the buttons off her favorite sweater. She was fascinated by the thought that our family had rescued the puppy, but not quite sure just what we had saved her from. In her eyes, the shelter was a veritable Doggy Toys R Us, bringing families and little bundles of canine love together.

Daisy’s biggest vice was fence jumping. Those leaps over the four and a half foot wooden barrier resulted in hour-long, frantic searches, riding up and down our country road calling her name and making those silly come-hither sounds with pursed lips. She would finally appear, head lowered as though begging our forgiveness.

Over the years, Daisy took her place in our family, and being the loyal dog she was, listened to each of our frustrations and ranting when nobody else wanted to. She licked our faces, snuggled her head on our shoulders and eased us through difficult moments. She instinctively knew when to cuddle and when to stay out of the way, all the while keeping a watchful, protective eye over us.

Time passed; Daisy’s spirit belied her age. She was twelve years old, but it hadn’t occurred to me that her end could be near. I had noticed the loss of appetite and blamed it on the hot, humid weather. We took her to the vet’s office anyway.

When the doctor called to tell us the bad news, I couldn’t respond. I hung up on him mid-sentence. I gathered myself. He must have made a mistake – wrong dog. I called him back. No mistake. We would most likely have to put Daisy down, he said.

My husband and I brought her home and smothered her with love. She absorbed it all and gave it right back. We hand fed her all her favorite treats just to get her to eat a little something. We kept looking for the tiniest sign of improvement, but she was losing weight at an alarming rate. Just standing up in her basket was difficult. Each step was shaky and labored. There was no doubt; we had to let her go. We made an appointment…and cancelled it twice.

Finally, we made the decision; as painful as it was, we had to do what was best for Daisy. My husband gathered her in his arms, and we carried her for one last walk down our favorite path. We walked slowly letting her savor the sights and smells of the woods. A rabbit, nibbling grass, caught our scent and scampered away. Once, Daisy would have reacted with a giant leap (as far as her leash would allow), and some tenacious barking; now she simply sighed and let her head fall into the crook of my husband’s arm. It’s time, she seemed to say. We would not cancel this appointment.

The void was terrible. The dog bed with her indelible impression, stayed in place for two weeks before we could take it away. My hand unconsciously reached to pet her head as I sat watching television.

Months passed…a year. We made excuses as to why we didn’t get another dog: Daisy couldn’t be replaced; we could go out for the day and not have to hurry home to let the dog out; there was no more dog hair coating the bottom of our socks. We both really knew – it hurt too much to lose such a precious pet.

One morning, my husband pointed out a collection of pictures in the newspaper. Those posed snapshots of puppies looking needy and adorable at the same time, and all of them available at the local Animal Rescue.

“No,” I said emphatically. “No more dogs.”

“You’re right,” he said, tossing the paper in the garbage. But, the pictures kept appearing on the table, on the couch, in the bathroom.

“Okay,” I relented. “We’ll go to the animal shelter and get a puppy fix, but we are not bringing one home. You may want to think about volunteering there.”

We entered the cement floored kennel that housed dogs of all colors, sizes and breeds. Most jumped at their cage walls and barked as we walked by. Pick me, they seemed to be shouting.

As we turned the corner, a Labrador-mix puppy peered at us quietly huddled in the corner. We coaxed him to us with whispered baby talk and wiggling fingers through the wire pen. He approached tentatively and licked our fishing digits.

“Would you like to take him to the play room,” a woman behind us asked.

“No,” I said.

“Yes,” my husband replied.

Fred (my husband’s choice) has black hair and big amber brown eyes. He noisily wolfs down his food like it’s his last meal and belches loudly when he’s done. When he gets the chance, he runs like a rocket into the woods, crashing through bushes, sending wildlife in all directions. He eventually trots out of the thicket covered in mud, twigs, leaves and terrible, smelly substances. At those moments, I don’t know whether to be relieved that he found his way home, or drive him straight back to the rescue center.

If he was a human, I would picture Fred in dirty jeans and a torn t-shirt, scratching his cow licked head (among other things). There’s nothing gentlemanly about Fred. He’s now four years old. He pouts and whines when I say no, but loves me, nonetheless.

Of course, Fred had me at the first nudge of his shiny, wet nose.

It all started with an email to my husband…

“Dear Dr. Mallin:

I am reaching out to share an opportunity that may be of interest to you or a physician educator in your network. American University of Antigua, AUA, is conducting a search for a Chair of Introduction to Clinical Medicine within the Universities’ School of Medicine. This is a unique opportunity to influence the future of medicine and medical care within the US while living in the Caribbean…”

He forwarded it to me, stating he had jokingly replied with a CV. My remark – “For real? Perfect, I’ll get a job at Eric Clapton’s tx ctr there,” to which he replied only with a smiley face. Granted we loved the Caribbean; love diving, enjoy traveling there; had friends on several islands. And my husband was getting a little bored with his job and was looking for a challenge. But move? Leave Charleston? No way. Not going to happen.

Four days later, we were invited to Antigua for interviews. We decided to go, figuring that the free trip to Antigua was worth it. Thinking, “What is the worse thing that can happen? – We could like it and decide to move there.”…still a win-win situation in our minds. We either stayed in Charleston or moved to the Caribbean. How bad could it be?

The island, with its 365 beautiful beaches, was breathtaking. The resort we stayed in – not so much. The beach was great, and the staff friendly, but every night there was karaoke being sung loudly outside of our rooms until way past my bedtime. And not good karaoke either…if you can imagine a bunch of international tourists (meaning strange accents) drunk and singing the “Hokey Pokey.” Which actually sounded a little better than the runner up favorite of “Knock Three Times.” I hated that song back in the 70s when Tony Orlando and Dawn sang it, and I still do.

But the school was impressive, and the faculty excited about their plans to make the Caribbean medical school into one that could compete with U.S. schools. By the second day there, I knew in my heart that we were going to move. And realizing that, I found myself having to fight back tears.

How bad could it be, right?

Next thing I knew, we were handing in our three month notices.

It was quite a difficult decision – much harder than I thought it would be. After all, we weren’t committing to forever, just a few years. Yes, it is a great opportunity, and yes, it is a beautiful island, and yes…I could go on and on. After giving notice, I had moments of disbelief and excitement; to be living many people’s dream, to be able to dive whenever, never wear heavy coats, not have the hassle of being limited to 10 minute patient visits…there were many positives to it. And don’t get me wrong, going there was a mutual decision, and I was as excited about this adventure as was my husband.

It wasn’t going to be all sunshine and coral though…there were negatives. I had wanted to be a doctor since I was 14, spent a few years as a surgery resident and then was unable to practice medicine for several years. I struggled to get back into medicine and truly treasured my profession. I loved what I did. I loved my patients and my office staff. And even though I was talking to the staff at Crossroads, Eric Clapton’s drug and alcohol treatment center, there were no guarantees that I would ever be able to get a license on the island. It’s very difficult for a U.S.-trained doctor to get a medical license there. At first I would be teaching at the medical school three days a week – not a bad job but not my dream.

That was the main negative. Others included things like being far from family, no 5k or 10k runs every weekend, no air conditioning, no bathtub or clothes dryer in the house, no Target or Stella Nova. No Publix. But I figured I could live without them, at least for awhile. And I ultimately decided that a few years as a medical school professor could only strengthen my professional knowledge.

Those three months were so hard. Saying good-bye to patients often left us all crying. I couldn’t imagine not hanging out and laughing with my co-workers. And with my running buddies, cycling friends and folks from my12 step program, I had so many different groups to say good-bye to that I actually ended up with several going-away parties.

It was at one of those parties that I had one of those “ah-ha moments.” I looked around that room and remembered where I came from. Growing up we moved every year or two due to my dad’s job. I had always envied people who had friends that they grew up with – those who shared memories of 1st grade, their first period and their first boyfriend. The ones who remembered the metal braces and disappointments over who did or didn’t ask them to the prom; the friends, especially women, who really knew and loved one another. I never had that. Over those years, I had developed a coping mechanism to allow me to be okay with leaving people behind, to not hurt too much. I learned to be superficially friendly, and do what I needed to do to fit in. I became a chameleon. I never realized who I was and I never really let anyone else in…especially not women. I had always felt lonely and like an outsider. Sometimes all I thought I wanted out of life was to fit in.

At that party, I looked around the room, filled with laughing, beautiful, bright, outgoing, caring women; friends from all the parts of my life. Who actually KNEW me…and loved me. My heart was full as I realized that I had finally figured out who I was and that I had the life I had always wanted. I finally fit in.

And yet, I was leaving this all behind. Amazingly, instead of sorrow for what I was “losing,” I felt hope for what I might find on this new journey. I felt that since I was taking “me” with me, that same multifaceted woman with an open heart and mind could develop meaningful relationships wherever I went.

I’ll let you know how that turns out…