Category: Bow Ties

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Gracie Put On A Show

I threw on my ELF ON THE SHELF Bow Tie o’ the Day and headed to Bishop Travis’ and Bishopette Collette’s abode on the way to their ward Christmas program yesterday. Let me just say this: I saw many shades of Grace Anne I had not seen before. And let me add that the wee sprite was constipated.

Until yesterday, I had never even heard Gracie cry. I heard her cry more than once yesterday, and her Sacrament Meeting cries made me hark back to the days of designated cry rooms. Church architectural designs change. But, in my opinion, the need for cry rooms in churches is for time and all eternity.

At church, Gracie wasn’t content in the lap of any of the five adults in our group. She could not settle down and just hang, as is her usual attitude. When I’ve been around her previously, she has been chill, chill, and chill again. However, yesterday, she was acting her age, both at home and at church. Constipation can do that when you’ve only been on the planet for 7 months. Or 55 years.

The absolute best photo o’ the day of Grace is the one I couldn’t snap. During one of my turns trying to mellow out Gracie at church, I noticed she was the perfect size to sit on the saddle of my Saddle Purse, which I had with me. I sat her on the saddle, and— with the bows on her shoes— it was the perfect-est scene for a post picture. I knew I wouldn’t see Gracie after church, so if I wanted to take the picture, I would have to take it then and there. She might be too bigly to sit on the Saddle Purse next time I see her.

I cannot express to you how difficult it was for me to resist taking the best. photo. ever. for TIE O’ THE DAY. But it was during Sacrament Meeting, so I figured the takin’ o’ pictures wasn’t quite right. I just lifted Gracie off my Saddle Purse and onto my lap. I sat there in the chapel, wishing for a few minutes that I wasn’t a respectful person, so I could take pix.

And then Gracie squirmed around and cried out. In fact, she screamed her cries, and Bishopette Collette had to take her out of the chapel. It was like Gracie was trying to be her own evil twin. She was still the cutest baby in the world.

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Got Glitter In Your Hair?

Bow Tie o’ the Day is covered in Santa-hatted yellow labs, but for the sake of this story, think of them as white coyotes. Bow Tie’ll fit this Baltimore story better if you do.

After teaching writing to adults for years at The University of Utah and Salt Lake Community College, I made a switch to teaching middle schoolers in Baltimore. It was culture shock in a variety of ways, not the least of which was that I was a white woman from a heavily rural state in a city whose residents are primarily black. ALL of my middle school students were black. We shared our culture shock with each other.

During a class I was teaching in my first year at Booker T. Washington Middle School, two girls named Keisha got into a verbal argument. I heard one chair slide out from under a desk, then a second chair, and I knew what that meant: FIGHT! I managed to jump over a row of desks and land right between the Keisha’s before one of the Keisha’s fists almost hit the other Keisha’s face. My face was in the way of its trajectory, but the Kiesha with the fist was able to redirect her fist quickly enough that it barely grazed my ear. The other Kiesha said, “Dang! You old white coyote.” I knew enough to know it was not meant as a compliment. I had ruined what the two Keisha’s and the rest of the class thought would have been a bloody fight.

But I chose to take being named a white coyote as a compliment anyway. A coyote is swift. A coyote can leap. A coyote can sense danger. The class waited for me to respond to the almost-fight, and to what they called “being called out my name.” They were waiting for The White Coyote to dispense consequences. I ignored the whole fight stuff. The Keisha’s sat back down. I said, “I’ve killed coyotes. My dad showed me how. Have you ever heard of “calling in” a coyote?” And they paid attention to every word I said about coyotes, and how important coyote hunting was in my family. They asked questions. They were focused. They learned. It was a teacher’s dream: a teachable moment. I had them in the palm of my teaching hand until the bell rang.

The next morning, my assistant principal came to my room before school and said to me, “I was walking past your classroom yesterday, and I noticed you weren’t teaching punctuation. You’re supposed to be teaching your students punctuation this week.” So much for teachable moments.

Yeah, cuz punctuation is the most important thing in the world to learn about. Not.

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A Short Gangsta

Tie o’ the Day is spot-on for this post. I’m going to tell you about, Kavon, a drug dealer gangsta who occasionally showed up as a student in my class when I taught middle school in Baltimore. I don’t mean he sold a little pot and a few pills to the other middle schoolers. I mean, he was an upper-tier dealer.

Kavon was 16, and he was still in the 8th Grade. He dressed the same way every day: Tommy Hilfiger khakis; Timberland boots; and a NEW, pressed, white t-shirt. He wore gold bling: gold earrings; gold Rolex; and at least 3 herringbone gold chains around his neck at a time.

Kavon read well, and he was bright. He showed up in class just enough to barely pass. He told me he had better things to do with his time than sit in school, but his grandma was nagging him to “graduate” from the 8th Grade. He was determined to “walk across the stage” at the end of that year for his grandma to see, then school was over for him. When I asked him why he thought he didn’t need an education, he walked to the classroom window to show me something. “That’s mine,” he said as he pointed to a new creme-color Lexus with gold rims, parked at the foot of the stairs to the school entrance. It was the nicest car in miles. It was also in the best parking spot at the school.

I explained various ways getting an education might be a better long-term plan for him. I said, “Kavon, with your brain, you could be a doctor when you’re 25.” He didn’t skip a beat, and replied, “Ms. Wright, I’m not gonna live to be 25.” I told him that was exactly my point, but he couldn’t see it. That was one of the things that made me truly understand the lack of hope my students had, based simply on the neighborhood they were born into. By the neighborhood’s standards, Kavon was already the biggest man he would ever be. He was a success.

Kavon pointed out the window at his car again. “I bought my grandma a car for Christmas too— exactly like mine.” He was proud of himself. He told me he had paid cash for both cars.

I don’t know how, or if, things ended for Kavon in the 25 years since then. If I go by statistics, I’d have to say he probably went to prison a couple of times, and then got shot and killed during a drug deal, on a street corner by Booker T. Washington Middle School.

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The Christmas Box

Suzanne gets the Billy Bob Thornton BAD SANTA Bow Tie o’ the Day Award today. A few years ago, I posted a photo of this same sealed box, on which Suzanne had so elegantly scribbled the “detailed” contents. I simply want you to know— in case you’ve wondered— Suzanne still has not yet opened the holiday box, let alone gone through its mysterious trinkets and decor. The sad box sits quietly on a top shelf in the garage, lonely, counting down the years until Suzanne finds time to set its contents free and determine their fate.

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Weirdest. X-mas. Card. Ever.

I spent most of the 90’s teaching Creative Writing in an arts-centered middle school in inner-city Baltimore, MD. If you’ve seen the HBO series THE WIRE, then you have a pretty good idea what it was like where I taught. Poorest part of the city. Highest crime rate in the city. Highest murder rate in the country during some of the years I taught there. A 70 percent unemployment rate for adult black males in the city. Almost 100 percent of my students lived in public housing. Almost 100 percent of my students qualified for free lunch and breakfast, as well as free bus passes. Probably half of the students I taught had been passed along year after year in elementary school, without learning to really read. Even literacy was impoverished on the west side of Baltimore.

All my students were black, and I am the whitest white person ever to walk the planet. As I’m writing this, I can think of a thousand stories of my Baltimore adventures y’all might find interesting. For a long time, I couldn’t talk about my exploits there to anyone but Suzanne. Let’s just say teaching in an inner-city public school is not the best job to have if you are bipolar. And boy, am I bipolar! But I think I can talk about it now, so I’ll make a point to share Balto stories in the future.

But for now, suffice it for me to say that one of my 6th Grade students drew and colored this fine picture as a Christmas card to me, in 1994. His name was Deonte, and he gave it to me with such pride. He truly meant it to represent joyful holiday wishes for me, even though it more accurately represented his deadly neighborhood. I have treasured its unique perspective for all these 25 years.

I share this “Christmas card” with you here, with one of my A CHRISTMAS STORY Bow Ties o’ the Day. I still remember when Deonte handed me the picture as I was leaving the school building for Christmas break. When I saw it for the very first time, all I could think of was, “You’ll shoot your eye out!”

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I’m Super Close To Suzanne’s Fabric Scissors

But Bow Tie o’ the Day and I are not touching Suzanne’s holy fabric scissors. They are right behind me, next to the sewing machine in Suzanne’s Ultimate SewingBox. I’m not touching them. I’m not thinking about touching them. I’m certainly not using them to cut anything. I’m not even looking at them straight on. I only look at them with my peripheral vision. I would never even snap a photo of them. The flash might disturb them in their precious fabric scissor sleep. And I sure as heck don’t get this close to ’em if Suzanne’s in the room. That would make her too nervous. But do you know what’s funny? Suzanne had no problem with me holding the fabric scissors when I stood in line at JOANN to pay for them.

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Mother And Child

Dad went to the bigly coyote hunt in the sky on December 4, 2007. We laid him deep in his Delta dirt four days later, on December 8. And a week after that, on the evening of December 15, a bunch of our family donned our pajamas for a ride on the Polar Express, in Heber. My oldest sister, Betty (Mercedes, to me), and her eternal hubby, Kent, had planned the family Polar Express ride long before Dad’s death. It was to be a humongous family celebration of their 40th wedding anniversary. And so it was. Our grieving family was very much in need of something to celebrate. Train Bow Tie o’ the Day honors that healing outing.

This is one of the dearest photos I snapped on our Polar Express adventure. In the photo, Betty is clearly listening to Mom’s deep sorrow about Dad’s passing. Mom was now alone in a way not even a large, loud family could completely fill. Betty comforted Mom. And I have no doubt Mom comforted Betty. Grief is an awkward, homely thing. But it provides an opportunity for us to create beautiful responses to those who ache. In this way, sorrow can be transformed into beauty. I see such beauty here.

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Things Change. Not Really.

It happened: Suzanne left me. And I’m buying alcohol. It’s all true. But it’s only true in the sense that Suzanne left me to spend the weekend in Mesquite with her Champagne Garden Club Girls, for their annual Christmas bash. Spouses were invited, but my stoopid bipolar brain needed a quiet weekend at home. Sometimes it’s too people-y out in the world— even when they’re my fave people. Suzanne will be back home tomorrow.

And it’s also true I’m buying alcohol, but I have not tumbled off the proverbial wagon. I’m stocking up for Suzanne. I noticed her wine stash is depleted, and replenishing the wine inventory is part of my housewifery jobs. She’s not a bigly drinker, so I only have to make a liquor store run 3-4 times a year. I figured I should stock up ASAP since it’s so close to Christmas, which means exponentially growing herds, gaggles, bands, covens, and crowds at the liquor store with each passing day. I can now cross the “intoxicating spirits” errand off my list until probably February.

The photos show— among other things— how the weather changed on me while I was in the liquor store. It wasn’t snowing when I arrived, but it was dropping snow pellets on me and pine-cone-and-holly Bow Tie o’ the Day a few minutes later when I got back into Vonnegut Grace Vibe. The snow “storm” lasted exactly 45 seconds and caused 1 wreck in the parking lot. This is Utah, people! Snow happens. It is not a sign of the apocalypse. Just slow down. Pay attention. Panic is not required.

In the liquor store, I also snapped pix of some amusing beverages I ran across but had no reason to buy. We here at TIE O’ THE DAY thought you’d be amused too.

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Skitter’s Merry Pad

Skitter is looking dreamy in her flannel Bow Tie o’ the Day, as she lounges somewhat seductively around her own personal Charlie Brown Christmas tree— in her own personal living room townhouse. She’s looking dapper and cozy in her digs. She’s got a Dean Martin aura of smooth coolness going on. I feel like I should dress Skitter a tuxedo. I feel like I should mix her a dirty hot toddy, and set up a bigly, clunky microphone in front of her so she can croon holiday carols to us as we wrap presents and experience our own asinine people dramas.

Gee. I just realized I want to live in Skitter’s crate and be spoiled by me.

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Grow Yer Own

It’s that time of year when I grow out my Christmas beard. In my opinion, my beard is coming along dandily. Unfortunately, snowman Bow Tie o’ the Day is lost ‘neath my face’s plastic, furry locks. I don’t want to have to lift my beard for every person I see in order to show off a bow tie, so from now on I’ll be a strictly necktie person whenever I am with beard.

I don’t know if my beard makes me look like Santa, an elf, a gnome, or my dad. But I’m groovy with any and/or all of the above.