Deferred Dreams

I believe

Dreams Deferred,

til time

makes time,

will

find me

save me

when I need it

most.

A Stinky Rascal

 March 5, 2026

A Stinky Rascal

They say be careful what you wish for. 

I am an artist. I draw, paint, and write. And I do each one fairly well. No, I do not live my life in a profession that allows me to hone these skills/hobbies/talents/gifts. Well, I suppose one might say I do as I try to teach 75 totally uninterested sixth graders the long lost and quickly disappearing art of writing due to AI. Instead, I live my life feeling stifled by a lack of time to ever perform any of them, (this writing aside of course.) In the last year, I made a pledge to myself to make time. So I re-read the Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron and proceeded to spend the entire summer writing Morning Pages. I spent afternoons working on and finishing a short story that I vowed to publish on Amazon KDP – no it’s not there yet, but at least I finished. I purposely chose a short story to allay the overwhelming feeling of tackling a whole novel while I’m in this baby step phase of reclaiming my long lost loves.  I also began painting. I painted tiny little pictures that were portable for my upcoming first art fair. You see, I have an MFA and used to paint on canvases that were 4’x3’ at the smallest and 4’x7’ at the tallest. That will not happen again. It literally takes a room to store all those paintings from grad school 25 years ago that I cannot seem to part with. (Emotional attachment is real.) But I digress, so as I near retirement I have vowed to start honing my skills to prepare for a life of artistry in my leisure time. I will write, and create works of art. 

Well, someone got wind of my talent, maybe it was the art fair, maybe it was me seeking praise and confirmation for my long lost art skills. And now I have been invited to show at a huge fundraiser. I am to stand there and perform like a trained monkey painting on site (something I would never do), while displaying other completed pieces that I have not even started yet because I was also given a theme to paint. Meanwhile, people who do not value true art but want a piece of it will clamor for me to sell it at ridiculously devalued prices as if it is a machine made giclee print being sold in TJ Maxx for $40.00. Even if I sell it at a very reasonable $500 for time, materials, framing, and execution. The organization will want their cut to go towards their scholarships. 

Maybe that's why I dreamed last night that I went out foraging. I came in and some mushrooms fell out of my bag. Then, I put it in the corner, and it began to move. Next a baby skunk crawled out and before I could react, a baby racoon popped its head out of the bag too. I guess something stinks, and I am going to be dealing with a relentless mischievous rascal. Be careful what you wish for.

OH TUCK!

This is written in homage to my TBFF (Teacher Best Friend for Life.) She was also an English teacher, but abandoned me for easy street. She became a reading specialist. This is not to say it is an easier job, but up until this year at our school, the reading specialist worked with three - four kids per block. Well, the old reading teacher retired, and  times changed. My TBFF got certified to fill her shoes only to find they revamped the system . No more one on one with tiny little groups. She was in charge of reading strategies and maintaining the reading test scores for all 1200+ students. In my limerick poem to her, Tuck is her maiden name. Please excuse the language. ;)

A teacher that once went by Tuck

Thought reading an easier buck.

She thought there would be 

Just one, two, or three,

But she got the whole school, Oh F*#K!

As Time Ticks

I awoke and lay there thinking about time and the lack there of. As I pondered the escape of many minutes that I truly did not need to get away, I admonished myself for the inability to do anything about it. You see, we were blessed with an unexpected two hour delay. When that happens, it’s a gift from God that says you need to rest for two extra hours. But is that really what it means? Is it a gift that the gods have bestowed upon me that says, you have been such a loyal minion who works so hard to appease the entire world, so we will bless you with two extra hours. You may now start working on those horrible (well, except for the ones that I literally dictated to the strugglers) 6th grade five paragraph essays that you have avoided for far too long due to that lame excuse of a lack of time. Hm, it could also be a gift from Hermes the god of fitness bestowing on me the opportunity to finally walk the two flights to my basement where my home fitness gym awaits forgotten and forlorn with a layer of dust, hoping my new years resolution will one day make it to the top of the list. However, after dragging myself out of the bed, and stumbling to the coffeemaker, I saw my computer and it was my Morning Pages that won out. I have been posting my challenge entries just before midnight. Today, I will finally post a TWT entry early enough to be seen and maybe luck up on a review this time. Uh oh, I’d better hurry, I only have 30 minutes left to get dressed? Where in the world did the time go?

The Smells of Autumn

Autumn has arrived and with it, all of its scents and perfumes of this season. There is the scent of Bengay that has been spread unceremoniously across both knees. Your chest reeks of menthol via Vick’s vapor rub, which could also be spread above your lips to facilitate easier breathing. Your hair smells of rosemary, tea tree, and castor oil to promote growth and/or hide ever worsening thinning or bald spots. The house and your breath reeks of too much garlic which is being used to lower blood pressure. And you slosh wintergreen alcohol, turned black with the banana peels you have shoved into the bottle for the potassium benefits, all over the ever presenting aches and pains of a typical autumn day. When do you know it’s autumn? It’s when you care more about the benefits of the remedies than what you smell like.

Pas de Deux

Image by Freepik

Working together in front of a classroom involves rhythm and timing. It is a salsa where the partners dance at 160 bpm captivating their audiences with elegant moves and fascinating dips. The partners separate and groove individually as they shine in their own glory of notes and style only to come back together imparting the most important of information in their moves. It is not a line dance where they move lock-in-step. It couldn’t be because they each bring a talent to the table, one a gen. ed. teacher, the other – Sped or El. There would be no need for two if they danced the same exact moves. Nor is it a waltz in simple repetitive counts of three over and over again. Lessons are too unpredictable. Teaching together means pausing and allowing your partner to take the stage and shine. It means reaching out and taking his hand as you move into place to make the next leap before he spins you and lets you slide to the floor allowing him to then split leap jump over your head. It is should be effortless and should flow even without practice.

Unfortunately, my partner steps on my toes – all throughout the dance. She leaps when she should glide, she runs like a wild rhino when she should halt. And I am stiff and frozen in a stoic move of resistance and frustration. We lack rhythm and timing and will place last in the dance contest this year. 

Trim and a Haircut: Beauty Parlor Blues

It was beauty parlor day at the nursing home for my mom. That means it has been nearly three months since I have made the time to pamper and groom her properly. 

Yes, I go every week like a dutiful daughter. I deliver her assorted requests of garlic powder for her blood pressure, French's Yellow Mustard for her indigestion, and raw honey for her throat. The list is varied, but it is always something as if the brand new facility had no kitchen or cleaning supplies.

Why, for months, well, actually almost a year, she asked me over and over again for a hair dryer. She refused to let them do her hair because she said they would let it air dry and of course that "would just give her pneumonia." I tried to disagree with her, but that is just asking for a fight. And she just may hit you if you are close enough when you "talk back" -- her term for sassing.

Finally, I tired of that complaint and went shopping to purchase her a small compact dryer that would fit neatly in her bathroom drawer. The next week, she tells me, they probably wouldn't use it anyway. She would just rather wait for me. 

Oh, and yes, I wash her clothes, though that is supposed to be apart of her package. However, her clothes began to disappear when the aides washed them, and were showing up on the backs of other residents... literally! 

You see, I had written her name in giant letters on the back of them figuring no one would see the writing when she was sitting in the wheelchair, but there would be no mistaking who they belonged to -- especially with a name as unique as hers: "Lovie." 

But to no avail because "Lovie" was still spread all across the four wings of that nursing home. When the staff wasn't losing them, her neighbor was stealing them. (By the way, this is the same lady who walked into my mother's room while she was at lunch, crawled into her bed and began to eat the candy out of my mother's Easter basket while watching her TV.)

I was also tasked with bringing home the weekly bag because she can't stand the thought of hers being washed with others who my mom swears have bedsores and flaking skin. I can't say that I blame her. 

At any rate, for New Year's Day, I decided to give her a fresh start for the year to make her feel pretty. I painted her nails with a two color design. Next, I cut her hair and trimmed her eyebrows that were beginning to take on a life of their own. Then, as I began to pluck the stray hair that grows under 88 year-old ladies chins, my mother who hates to admit she even has hair there, looks up at me and asks, "So how often do you cut your?" 

As my mouth dropped in disbelief, I had to remind her that I do not grow hair under my chin… yet. Obviously, with her genes, I may if I ever make it to 88.