(Note: This one’s for the teachers. If it comes across as anti-public education, that’s not my intent. It may showcase my limited understanding of the law as I reference a Georgia House Bill as it relates to a teacher’s termination and her journey to get that decision reversed. So be it. It’ll definitely shine a light on my own past feelings and behaviors as a classroom teacher—sometimes rash and embarrassing, but oh, so human. And that, my friends, is my point. All teachers have superpowers. They make tough decisions each day. They excel. They fail. They’re human. So, teachers, I want you to know: I see you. I respect you. We need you. Here’s wishing you all the best!)
Recently, my daughter Quinn, who teaches kindergarten, brought up the book, My Shadow is Purple by Scott Stuart. A teacher here in Cobb County purchased a copy from her school’s book fair last spring and read it to her gifted fifth grade class. According to the book’s back cover, it’s a story that considers “gender beyond binary in a vibrant spectrum of color.”
A couple parents voiced concerns that the teacher’s sharing that book violated their rights under Georgia House Bill 1084. Passed in 2022, the bill bans educators from teaching so-called divisive concepts. The teacher who read the book was asked to resign or be terminated for violating HB 1084.
“Oh, my God,” I said to Quinn. “You didn’t read that book to your class, did you?”
“No, Mother.” She rolled her eyes at me. I could tell, even though we were talking on the phone.
“Actually,”—I felt my lips twitch, fighting off a wry smile—“it sounds more like something I would have done.”
And it does.
Back in 2003, after years as an at-home parent, I felt called to go back to teaching. A friend who had done the same thing warned me the lay of the land had become very different.
“It used to be 80 percent creativity and 20 percent B.S.,” she said. “These days that’s flip-flopped.”
Still, I felt that calling. I went back to school for linguistics and Brit Lit, the classes required for my recertification. Then I pulled together a portfolio containing my resume, teaching philosophy, and a writing sample—a critique of Alexander Pope’s Rape of the Lock. And I interviewed for positions.
Wonder of wonders, I landed a job teaching middle school language arts--three sixth-grade sections and two at the seventh-grade level. Giddy, I signed my contract mere days before school started. Off the bat, I learned the language arts lead instructor was on leave with a newborn. Her stand-in replacement, overwhelmed, stumbled to know how to help me except to say that textbooks were backordered with no teacher editions on hand. And then I found out a PTA scandal the previous year meant no discretionary funds for classroom supplies. I hadn’t expected much, but this meant nada.
I dug in, determined to answer my calling. And maybe I could have, if I’d just had more time. But I didn’t.
From the get-go, time was not on my side. My personal planning period got filled by team meetings. At lunch time, I—like my fellow faculty members—got half an hour to wolf down my own food while watching the kids do the same. In-service days focused on accreditation assignments and discipline how-tos. Granted, I needed the latter. Kids were different from when I’d last faced a classroom, fifteen years earlier. Yet I had no mentor assigned to me because—well, I wasn’t a new teacher. I just felt like one.
In the classroom, the range of maturity, learning styles, and abilities stunned me. I had core curriculum guides to follow, with timelines and standards designed to “encourage the highest achievement in every student.” It didn’t sit well with me, introducing new lessons before previous ones got mastered. But time demanded it. Standards had to be met. Reaccreditation depended on it.
Time—well, also age—continued to work against me personally, too. A doctor who looked fourteen diagnosed my prolific, long-lasting menstrual periods as symptoms of perimenopause. I couldn’t thank him enough. It was easy to purchase and stash massive amounts of super-plus feminine hygiene products. Finding enough student-free moments to tend to my business proved more challenging.
On the homefront, my own kids faced challenges, too. We teachers were told not to use our personal cell phones in class, so I told my kiddos to call my school office in case of emergency. The day one of my daughters called, the office failed to let me know. I was livid. But what could I say? One of the front-office clerks had called out, suffering side effects from chemotherapy.
Here I was, eight weeks into the school year, twenty pounds down (stress), and living on five hours of sleep a night (from planning and grading and filling out answer keys into the wee hours). My own kiddos no longer counted on me when they suffered a personal crisis. I was having too many of my own.
Around this time, one of my sixth grade students—let’s call him Benjamin—came into class in rare form, making jokes and asides every time I started to talk to the class. Finally, I'd had it.
“Benjamin!” I pointed a finger at him. “Shut the hell up.”
A little girl in the front row gasped. My heart cracked, seeing her brow furrow and her face go slack. I liked that girl. Shoot, I cared about them all, even Benjamin. But there was no undoing my deed.
“That’s right.” I squeezed my fists and shook them. “I said it. I said hell, hell, hell, hell, hell.”
Each time I repeated the word, I stomped a foot, left then right and repeat, until I’d completed my tantrum. Then I wrote Benjamin up for class disruption and sent him to the principal’s office.
Bless my naive little heart. Benjamin told the principal what happened (!), and I got reprimanded. Understandably so. But that day I went home with a realization: This middle school teaching gig wasn’t working. I never dreamed I’d break a contract, but that’s what I did. Over tears that night, I typed up my letter of resignation.
Three weeks later, I walked out of that middle school’s doors one last time. I spent months mourning how I couldn’t cut it. Years later, when Quinn went to college, I told her: “You think you’d like teaching? Well, take time to weigh all your options. It’s harder than most folks will ever know.”
Quinn remembered my struggles. She opted to study interior design—for a semester, maybe two. But the call of the classroom persisted, luring her back to her passion.
She’s taught at the same elementary school now for nine years. I’ve watched her superpowers grow. God willing, they’ll keep on eclipsing her more human moments.
Given time, I like to think I could’ve grown into a decent teacher, too. Sometimes I think bizarre circumstances and timing rigged my chances. Other times I blame the public education system. And then there’s this: Maybe I just couldn’t cut it. I have to accept that I’ll never know.
What I do know is this: Teaching is hard, hard, hard. That’s why I salute all the teachers out there with a virtual hug and a THANK YOU! Teachers: May your superpowers carry you through your toughest days, and may this year be one of your best ever.
Cheers ~ J
It’s official. In July, Rice and I finished Our Fifty-State Project by visiting Alaska. Watch for 49 good things—some observations, some pics—about our trip in my July newsletter, coming out Monday, July 31st.
For now I’d like to muse on the 50th good thing I discovered during our trip to Alaska.
It started when my cousin Beth reached out, suggesting that Rice and I join her and three others on a ten-day cruise to Alaska. Hmmmm, ten days? Based on our history, we aren’t big cruise fans. Not to mention we prefer solo travel. But Alaska was on our bucket list—part of Our Fifty-State Project—and what better way to see different parts of the state than to take a cruise?
The other carrot about this particular trip? It would re-introduce me to another cousin I barely knew. Our fathers, along with Beth’s dad, were brothers. We fell out of touch when, as a toddler, I lost my dad, Douglas Putnam, in an accident. When my mom remarried shortly afterward, I got folded into Harold Heidrich’s family, with two older step-sisters and, eventually, two younger half-sisters, too. Life went on.
During my preschool years, I maintained a special relationship with Grandma Putt, spending the night at her place often. We’d drink tea from one of her mismatched but fancy cup-and-saucer sets and wash the dishes together afterward. I winced as she gave herself twice-daily insulin shots, but I learned a little about life—like how to like grapefruit with sweetener at breakfast the same way that she did.
I was in elementary school when I first learned my mom and dad weren’t getting along when he died. “We probably would have gotten a divorce,” Mom said. This caught my breath, but I nodded when she suggested I not mention this talk to Grandma. “Just tell her you’re sure that your dad was a nice man.”
Grandma Putt passed away when I was in the sixth grade. Shortly after that, my mom, a widow again, moved my younger sisters and me from the village of Caro to the larger town of Saginaw. Again, life went on. I grew up as a Heidrich, stouter and paler than the rest, but we were family. That’s all I knew.
In my fifties—my fifties, for heaven’s sake!—I got a call from my mother to tell me my father had been a sonofabitch at times. Whoa. Mom had clearly been in the cups and was in no shape to explain more at that moment. But over time, I learned more specifics about her call. And my dad’s death.
To the best of my knowledge, the fatal single-car crash that killed him occurred in the wee hours after a night of drinking. My mom was home with me. My dad’s mistress, who survived the crash, was driving.
It’s now been over sixty years since my dad’s death. My mom’s been gone herself for eleven of those years. I trust she finally rests free of the deep shame and bitterness she obviously carried over what happened. I never picked up a huge animosity between her and the Putnams. (Her and my dad, yes. But not his family.) Over the years, I haven’t had a lot of contact with that branch of the family. A few Putnam aunts sent gifts when I started having babies. A cousin attended Mom’s celebration of life. Another cousin sent me a cup and saucer from Grandma Putt’s set when her own mom passed.
Then several years ago, my cousin Beth—a Putnam who’s never met a stranger—reached out to ask if she and her husband Sam could stop by while traveling through the Southeast. “Sure,” I said, pushing away my shy inclination to make an excuse. They joined Rice and me for dinner, and we clicked, enough so to pay them (and my Aunt Patty) a visit when we traveled out West in 2021. I’m glad we did. Aunt Patty died in 2022.
But back to 2023. And Alaska. I felt nervous about meeting my cousin Gary. “No worries,” Rice assured me. “Even if you don’t really mesh, we’ll still have Alaska.”
How right he was. Alaska delivered, in amazing fashion. Forty-nine good things, as I mentioned earlier.
But for now, here’s the 50th:
I was bowled over to meet Gary, five years my senior, who almost immediately said, “Your dad and Beth’s dad”—the youngest brothers—“used to toss me around when I was little just like a football.”
I smiled as I envisioned that picture of a family I never really knew.
“Another story,” Gary said. “Your dad was not a big guy. But he was strong. And Beth’s dad [Uncle Keith] had a mouth on him.” Gary’s eyes twinkled, and so did Beth’s. “Sometimes Keith would be out at the bars, talk trash to someone, and then get the snot beat out of him.” Gary paused. “But the next night, Keith would take your dad back to the bar to even the score.”
Oh…my. I’m not sure whether I was more tickled or mortified to hear that. I just know that it moved me.
And isn’t that the very point of sharing our stories? To create emotional connection and maybe even lend understanding to others’ behaviors?
Gary—and Beth—shared plenty more stories, and I loved hearing them. They didn’t explain all the gaps I have from childhood memories, but I didn’t expect them to. In fact, I’d venture we all have gaps.
Anyway, here’s one last story, maybe my favorite:
“I was helping your dad on the farm,” Gary told me. “When we finished some chores—I don’t know, maybe milking the cow or something—he turned to me and said, ‘I should go in and check on Janet.’”
That jolted me from the story. Until I remembered Janet was me. Long, long ago, I was Janet Putnam.
“I’m not sure if your mom was napping or what,” Gary continued. “But you were in the cradle, fussing. And your dad picked you up, changed your diaper, and then rocked you until you went back to sleep.”
Granted, this snip of a story could lead to other questions. Like where was my mom? And who watched me after I got placed back in the cradle?
But that’s not the point. The point is the story itself. It filled in some gaps. It re-lit a spark of a father’s love I never realized I was missing. I can’t put into words how much that spark has meant to me.
Because let’s get real. We all have unexplained memories and gaps, parts of our inner child we take to our grave.
What a gift it is when part of the inner child we once linked with shame gets transcended by love.
Hugs to friends and family—all of you all! J
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In early June, Rice and I checked off destinations #47, 48, and 49 on our quest to see all 50 of the United States. Yup, we’ve now ticked off both Dakotas and Montana, hopefully just on paper.
We’ve been on this journey for quite a few seasons now. Even so, there are always new places to see, experiences to share, and lessons to learn—mostly about ourselves, truth be told.
Here are some observations from our most recent road trip:
1. There are two types of traveling couples: those who like to travel together just the two of them, and those who do not. Sure, some like to mix it up and do both—maybe the beach with other couples, but new destinations just themselves. Neither approach is right or wrong, mind you. What’s important is knowing and respecting your own personal inclinations. (And may God and compromise help you if you and your partner don’t align here.)
For giggles, Rice and I sometimes gauge our ongoing travel compatibility, like at a stop in Medora, where I spotted two men our age traveling together in Corvettes. “Are you part of a club?” I asked one “No,” he said, “just friends.” On closer look, I saw each had a woman in his vehicle; one looked like an original wife (or girlfriend), the other a newer model. When I got back to our car, I asked Rice if he’d like to rent something sporty and try some double-date traveling down the road. He restarted the car, waited a beat, and finally said, “Nah.” I exhaled relief.
2. No matter how well you plan, surprises will arise. Some of these might be good, like winning big at one of Billings’ 95 casinos—which, no, we didn’t do. Our surprises were more like car trouble in Wisconsin and a power outage at check-in when we got to our Dickinson hotel.
3. Yes, Southerners are hospitable, but Midwesterners win the prize for being NICE. And just for the record, I’m oh, so tired of folks who consider being nice a weakness. From Evansville, where the waiters and bartenders talked AND listened to us, to Madison, where the folks at the VW dealership fit in an emergency fix in less than 90 minutes, everyone was incredibly nice. Same goes for the hotel maintenance guys in Dickinson who schlepped our luggage up the stairs for us because the elevator was out…and then declined a tip. Midwestern nice on full display.
4. Despite what it looks like on social media, there is no way to see and do it all during travel. It’s easy to let the quest for a perfect journey interfere with enjoying an exceptional one. For instance, we debated skipping Montana this round because we couldn’t fit it all in. Was Billings the most picturesque part of the state? Probably not. But we loved its kick-ass murals, its walkable downtown, and an amazing Vegan-friendly restaurant (Walker’s) across from our hotel.
5. On the topic of food…. If you travel with a donut aficionado in search of THE BEST of THE BEST in every town visited, don’t join in the hunt and expect the scale to like you once you return home. Also don’t point out that donuts may not be Vegan-friendly. And try not to have too big a tantrum when the donut-eating Vegan weighs in two pounds lighter upon the return home.
6. Nothing is quite so blue as the Western sky.
7. Traveling as a couple works best—for us, at least—if you build in some down time to be apart. It took several trips for us to learn this, but we’re getting the hang of it now. He likes to face the day with coffee and breakfast and time at the gym; I like to ease into a less-structured morning. He is a history-loving man who’s never met a landmark he couldn’t study for hours; I like a Spark notes version of the past and enjoy landscapes and terrains over markers and monuments.
8. There’s something about cemeteries, though. Both Rice and I enjoy visiting them. (Just to clarify, we like to visit as living beings.) Deadwood’s Mount Moriah Cemetery didn’t disappoint. It fascinated me to learn it segregated its dead. There was an Old West area where Wild Bill Hickock and Calamity Jane laid in rest, but also Jewish and Chinese sections, a special area for children, and a potters field where paupers and indigent people were buried. Apparently, this is not an unusual practice, this segregation in burial grounds. Who says a woman of a certain age can’t learn new things?
9. On the topic of learning…. Traveling couples would be wise to learn how to deal with daily spats. Personally, Rice and I like to deal with them the Ted Lasso way. You know: “Be a goldfish,” a creature with such a short attention span, it’s easy to forget and move on. But if that fails, there’s always the Honey-and-Rice way, which is to look for the fun (or funny) in the inevitable irritations. Here’s an example. Me: “Now don’t get irked with yourself and burrow your head up your ass if this route turns out to be bad.” Him: “I won’t.” [Smirk] “Unless it’s to shut out your complaints about the GPS lady’s tone as she recalculates our route.” Sigh.
10. Finally, whenever possible, build in some special stops to visit with people who have touched your lives in a special way along your journey. Letting them know what they meant to you once upon a time is golden. And sometimes, learning how much you still connect provides an icing too delicious to describe.
On this trip, we caught up with some of Rice’s debate buddies from college, folks we’ve seen through the years, which has always been a delight. In addition, we reconnected with one of my college roommates, the maid of honor in our wedding. We hadn’t seen her in forty years, but we picked up as though no time had passed at all. What a pleasure—a privilege, even—to relive sweet memories and make new ones with Lyn and Doug, David and Michele. Love and safe travels, dear friends, wherever the road takes you next.
As I try to digest all this, a visit to state #50 lies on the horizon for Rice and me. Fingers crossed that our health, love, and patience for one another hold up through July.
I’m optimistic.
Still, I’m working on that goldfish thing. Really.
Cheers ~ J
