Learning What I Already Know
Earlier this month, my daughter-in-law, grandkids, grandnieces, grandnephews, and millions of other children and teachers began another school year. I’m excited for them. I liked school, mostly for the school part. The trying to fit in part, I could have done without, but I survived and still have great memories of my school days.
I still vividly recall the first day outfits—a sailor dress, black and white saddle shoes, new gym shorts, and a pearl-snapped western shirt I wore for my senior pictures. Then there was the smell of freshly sharpened #2 pencils, three-ring binders, and clean, crisp notebook paper. I still love the feeling I get when I open up a brand new writing journal with nothing but blank pages just waiting for the touch of my pen.
My love for school probably had something to do with the fact that my mom was a teacher and our whole lives revolved around school activities. My sister and I very seldom had to ride the bus to school. Instead, we rode along in a carpool with other teachers and arrived at school long before all the other kids. Sometimes, we got to hang out in the teacher’s lounge.
My first paying jobs came from other teachers—including whitewashing a picket fence and babysitting. Several times, I babysat the high school art teacher’s two young boys. Her name was Stephanie. She lived on a historic ranch in an old log cabin. It was dark inside with low ceilings, but it was warm and cozy. Before they left for the night, her husband Jon, an old cowboy who also put shoes on our horses, would stock the wood stove so it would last until they got home. The boys were usually in bed by the time I got there, so to pass the time, I would wash the dishes, do my homework, and listen to albums on their record player. I still remember flipping through a wooden crate of albums, carefully choosing one after another and placing it on the turntable. Within the walls of those time-worn, hand-carved logs, I discovered Linda Ronstadt’s Silk Purse, Loggins and Messina’s Sittin’ In, the Eagle’s Desperado, and many other influential albums. I think the year was 1975, which would have made me about 10-11 years old.
Around midnight, I would hear the car pull up to the cabin. While Jon waited outside with the car idling, Stephanie would hand me some cash, I’d grab my coat, and then Jon would drive me home. The trip home always seemed so long and slow as Jon did his best to keep the old sedan in the middle of the snow-packed road in his drunken state. I always arrived safely, and somehow, he did as well.
These memories of the music I discovered during this time always bring up warm feelings of nostalgia. When I see those album covers or hear one of those songs, it takes me right back to that old log cabin where I spent hours listening. Thinking about it now, it almost feels like a dream. It seems so far away, almost unreachable—a time when cellphones, computers, iPads, or televisions didn’t compete for my attention.
These days, my time is divided into short increments, with important things I need to do always waiting in the wings, with impatiently tapping fingers. Long pauses or album-length stretches of time are hard to come by…or are they?
So far, in my life, I’ve spent a lot of time and money in my quest to learn something new. I’ve been to songwriting schools, beekeeping workshops, equine massage therapy school, roping school, rodeo secretary school, art school, and music school. Right now, I’m learning how to lead Yoga and Tai Chi, creating my version of a feel-good yoga practice that will help others feel better—a timely opportunity that presented itself shortly after the nearby yoga studio I attended closed.
I’m a firm believer that no effort is wasted. Everything I’ve learned up until now has added value to my life. However, there is one ongoing lesson that will never end—fortunately, life school is always in session. I’m still learning how to spend my time in ways that truly nourish my soul, like listening to an album.
