Graduation brings pressing memories

Graduation brings pressing memories The day of my college graduation dawned clear and bright, another hot, humid summer day in Gainesville. The University of Florida Class of 1981 was going to be the first class to graduate in the brand spanking new O'Connell Center, across from the football stadium in Gainesville. The building design was new and with an inflated fabric roof design so unique that some people speculated whether it was sturdy enough to make it through a graduation. Twenty-five years later, we know that it has withstood several hurricanes as well. My mother and younger sisters met me before the ceremony and watched me slip on my black graduation gown, over my dress. I stood proudly, brushing out the folds in the black satin as I bobby pinned the cap in my shining dark brown hair. I would be the first child in our family to graduate from a four-year college. It hadn't been easy. I'd quit college twice, to work in the real world, both times returning to school despite the naysayers who told me once I quit, there was no going back. After a year of working fulltime and saving money, each time I'd returned to school, a little older and wiser, realizing the importance of a college degree. My mother gaped at me in wonder, I thought, at the sight of her eldest daughter, all grown up. It turned out she had another thought on her mind. "Didn't you press your graduation gown and hang it when you took it out of the box?" she asked. "Was I supposed to?" I replied. Actually, I probably couldn't have even told her just where my iron was on that bright and cheery morning when I was planning the rest of my life. As I spoke, I straightened the folds of the gown, putting a little more muscle into my efforts to brush out those creases the gown had gathered while folded in the box. There, it was good enough. For years, I had been told that it what was on the inside that really mattered, anyway. And, on the inside, this almost-college graduate was bursting with creative energy and ready to get out and change the world, through my words or in whatever way I could. I did, indeed, find my iron and use it on a regular basis in my professional life. A chameleon, it was easy for me to play the role I found myself in at any given time, whether it be executive, wife, social do-gooder or even mom. But, as Popeye would say, I yam what I yam. I have always been a doer, not a planner. Sometimes, this trait may cause me to leave the house with clothing lightly rumpled, hair not dry, putting lipstick on in the car. Or all three. The slightly rumpled look of my graduation gown did not hold me back, although if my goal that day had been to annoy my mother, it was a job well done. Ahh, the exuberance of youth! The thrill of the chase! The lure of the future! The ability to judge when you are using too many exclamation points! It's all out there for the high school and college graduates putting on their gowns this month. And for the mothers out there, a word of advice: If you want to make sure your graduate's gown is pressed, then do it yourself! Learn to accept your children and give them the encouragement to be true to themselves, not a little image of what mom or dad want them to be. Sue-Ellen Sanders writes about family issues every week

Graduation brings pressing memories

Graduation brings pressing memories The day of my college graduation dawned clear and bright, another hot, humid summer day in Gainesville. The University of Florida Class of 1981 was going to be the first class to graduate in the brand spanking new O'Connell Center, across from the football stadium in Gainesville. The building design was new and with an inflated fabric roof design so unique that some people speculated whether it was sturdy enough to make it through a graduation. Twenty-five years later, we know that it has withstood several hurricanes as well. My mother and younger sisters met me before the ceremony and watched me slip on my black graduation gown, over my dress. I stood proudly, brushing out the folds in the black satin as I bobby pinned the cap in my shining dark brown hair. I would be the first child in our family to graduate from a four-year college. It hadn't been easy. I'd quit college twice, to work in the real world, both times returning to school despite the naysayers who told me once I quit, there was no going back. After a year of working fulltime and saving money, each time I'd returned to school, a little older and wiser, realizing the importance of a college degree. My mother gaped at me in wonder, I thought, at the sight of her eldest daughter, all grown up. It turned out she had another thought on her mind. "Didn't you press your graduation gown and hang it when you took it out of the box?" she asked. "Was I supposed to?" I replied. Actually, I probably couldn't have even told her just where my iron was on that bright and cheery morning when I was planning the rest of my life. As I spoke, I straightened the folds of the gown, putting a little more muscle into my efforts to brush out those creases the gown had gathered while folded in the box. There, it was good enough. For years, I had been told that it what was on the inside that really mattered, anyway. And, on the inside, this almost-college graduate was bursting with creative energy and ready to get out and change the world, through my words or in whatever way I could. I did, indeed, find my iron and use it on a regular basis in my professional life. A chameleon, it was easy for me to play the role I found myself in at any given time, whether it be executive, wife, social do-gooder or even mom. But, as Popeye would say, I yam what I yam. I have always been a doer, not a planner. Sometimes, this trait may cause me to leave the house with clothing lightly rumpled, hair not dry, putting lipstick on in the car. Or all three. The slightly rumpled look of my graduation gown did not hold me back, although if my goal that day had been to annoy my mother, it was a job well done. Ahh, the exuberance of youth! The thrill of the chase! The lure of the future! The ability to judge when you are using too many exclamation points! It's all out there for the high school and college graduates putting on their gowns this month. And for the mothers out there, a word of advice: If you want to make sure your graduate's gown is pressed, then do it yourself! Learn to accept your children and give them the encouragement to be true to themselves, not a little image of what mom or dad want them to be. Sue-Ellen Sanders writes about family issues every week

What you become is up to you

Posted: 2006 Apr 28 - 04:10

When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother, what will I be?
Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?
Here's what she said to me:
Que Sera Sera
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours to see
Que Sera Sera

- From "Que Sera Sera," sung by Doris Day

It was the last line of one of those chatty e-mail lists that got me thinking; the kind of e-mail that asks you to answer a dozen or so questions and to forward your answers, along with the questions, to a bunch of your e-mail friends.
"Getting to know you," the e-mail title usually reads. Although I've completed them and sent them along a couple of times, I've often wondered, who has the time to think up these things?
Over the last year, I've learned my New York cousins' favorite foods and colors, my sister's favorite TV show and the middle name of my friend, Linda. All pieces of information, while interesting, I probably could have survived without knowing.
The latest version of "Getting to know you" was sent to me by my mother, someone you might think that I know a lot about. Actually, though, I did not know that her favorite brand of clothing is Liz Claiborne (useful for future birthdays and Christmas), that she would like to vacation in Paris and uses Arm & Hammer laundry detergent.
So, as I was sitting down to get some work done at the computer, in that, "Let's-just-check-my-e-mail-again-and-make-sure-there-isn't-anything-other-than-work-I-can-do" mood, I blithely followed the directions of the "Getting to know you" e-mail, cutting and pasting the e-mail into a new outgoing message for completion.
Then, I went down the list, responding to each question, one by one. Until I got to the end of the list, to this fill in the blank question, which still sits heavy on my mind.
"If I could, I would be..."
Hmmm. I thought about, "If I could, I would be rich."
Except, who is defining rich? I am rich in love, rich in history and even rich in money, compared to when I was in college. But that's not the most important thing, to me, anyway.
How about, "If I could, I would be pretty."
Again, the standards are questionable. To my husband, I am already pretty. To my children, I am beautiful. Also, not the most important thing in life.
Among other things, I considered wishing for health, youth and fame, to be a faster runner, a more patient person. All relative, all superfluous, all things I have wished to be over the years.
But none of those things felt right, until I filled in the blank with this:
"If I could, I would be happy."
And that's when the "aha" about my life kicked in, after those early years of wondering, imagining, and working on what I would be.
I am as rich and pretty and successful and healthy and young as I want to be. It is all within my control.
And after all the wishes I might make upon a star, the sweet dreams I dream at night and the hopes of being the best I can be-when I wake up, I can decide to be happy.
Everyday.

Sue-Ellen Sanders writes about family issues every week in the Hometown News. Contact her at tothemoon@bellsouth.net

The Back Story

The story behind: Run for the Coach 5K

By Sue-Ellen Sanders

The plan for a 5K race to honor Coach Wayne Cross began in Kathy & Tom Perona’s kitchen, while our daughters, who were taught English by Wayne Cross the year before, in 6^th grade, and run cross-country for him the same year, were entertaining teens in the other room.

Our girls had loved Cross as both a teacher and a coach; his laid-back easy-going manner was comforting to young teens going through turbulent times.  We were sad to hear he was ill with melanoma.  The man was a legend among the students and yet so humble, I’m sure he never knew.  Kathy and I, both runners ourselves, had run with him and helped him out coaching occasionally, in fact, her husband, Tom, had run marathons with him in years past.

“Let’s start a race!”

 It was the way we celebrated everything.  We wanted a way to show Coach Cross what he meant to the students, athletes and parents whose lives he had affected and pictured this great 5K race to honor him, with a frail, but recovering Wayne Cross helping to give out the medals at the end of the race.  We would get first-time runners to come, student athletes and coaches of all ages; and award so many medals to teens that even the middle-of-the-pack runners would be feted, just as Coach Cross had done for his students and his athletes.

When I mentioned the plan to my running partner, the mother of one of Coach Cross’s star athletes, she was all for it and spread the word like wildfire through the student running and soccer community.  Cross also coached the Lincoln Park Academy girls’ soccer team and soon those parents and kids were anxious to do what they could.

“We love you!”

As the race plans progressed, so did Wayne Cross’ cancer.  Bedridden and seriously ill, it became obvious that Cross would not be able to participate in the race, so we made a large banner for him. “We love you, Coach Cross!” it read and we bought markers in every color, so everyone could sign it for him and he could display it in his room and know how those kids, how those parents, all cared for him and held him in the highest esteem.

The race tee-shirt was designed by Martha Cross, featuring a runner making his way over the South Beach bridge, as the sun rose, on the course where Wayne Cross trained his kids—both his own, growing up- and his students, every Saturday morning.

“We didn’t come here to walk.” 

There was a Wayne Cross quote on the race tee-shirt, “We didn’t come here to walk.” It was what Cross had called out to Tom Perona while they were both running the Chicago Marathon, many years before.  Tom had started the race too fast, passing Wayne and a bunch of others, and when Wayne Cross had come upon Tom walking about 20 miles into the race, it was what he said as he passed him by, in jest.   We planned to have Tom tell the story at the race; it was sure to make Wayne Cross laugh.

It was 5 days before race day, when we got the call:  Wayne Cross had died.  We all cried, for a man who had given everything to his students, for his family who now would have to continue on without him and for a world that was colder without a man like Wayne Cross.

Hundreds of students and parents and runners attended the funeral; a celebration of Wayne’s life.  And the next morning, many of them showed up at the first Run for the Coach 5K, a race first planned to honor him, but now held in his memory.  Students still signed the banner for him, even though he was not there to see.

As that first field of over 600 runners and walkers took off across the South Beach Bridge, on a clear and cool morning, just after sunrise, there was a feeling of both sadness and peace.  We were sad that Wayne Cross was not there to see how everyone cared about him, but glad he was out of pain.

When the hordes of runners and walkers finished the course, the Cross family and friends spoke about the man who was honored there; his presence hovering over us like a heavenly spirit.  And when Tom Perona told his funny story about the quote on the tee-shirt, we could almost hear Wayne Cross laugh.

The 7^th Annual Run for the Coach 5k will be held on Saturday, January 26, 2013.  Former students and student athletes of Wayne Cross who live from California to New York, return each year for the race, as well as students now away at college.  The race has expanded to honor coaches and teachers throughout the Treasure Coast and offers trophies to the top teachers and coaches, along with traditional medal categories. 

Martha Cross, Wayne’s widow, has designed art that combines an old photograph of Wayne Cross with a rendering of the South Beach Bridge at daylight, which graces the race tee-shirts.  Both she and her daughter Kate Cross Rotindo, who coached girls’ soccer like her dad, are involved with helping to put together the race each year, along with the parents of Wayne Cross’ former students.  Funds raised will go to benefit the building of running trails in Northwest Fort Pierce.  Call 772-971-6868 to information on the race.

Taking Back the Music

I can still remember how
That music used to make me smile.
And I knew if I had my chance,
That I could make those people dance,
And maybe they'd be happy for a while…

 Bye Bye Miss American Pie, Don McLean, 1972

I was in still in high school when Don McLean sang about the day the music died, in his anthem for Buddy Holley.  It was a time of change and excitement for me, of first boyfriends and dreams of college and what I would be when I grew up.

I could only imagine the family I’d have one day, two beautiful children, one boy, one girl (preferably) and of course the requisite husband.  He’d be funny, successful and good-looking and we would all live happily ever after in a television sitcom.

The music was always a part of my life in high school, college, and beyond.  Like the Fleetwood Mac album my college roommate and I  played over and over, our class high school graduation song- “Crosby, Still and Nash- We May Never Pass This Way” (we were a sarcastic bunch of kids)and the song we played for the first dance at our wedding “It Had to be You.”

From an early age, my kids rock and rolled in their car seats and sang back-up in the living room, to our family’s first home karaoke machine.  I danced around with them in my arms, crooning Linda Ronstadt, Carly Simon and James Taylor lullabies.

My kids grew older and the music changed, from Disney show tunes to Britney Spears, The A-Teens and the Back Street Boys.  I felt blessed that they skipped the rap stuff entirely and now sing along to Jason Mraz, Eric Hutcheson, Taylor Swift and Maroon 5.

But, not me. I don’t get to sing anymore.  About the time Bud and Sissy (not their real names, of course) hit their early teens, I stopped being the most wonderful woman in the world to them.  Along with that comprehension came many more:  that I was not beautiful, that I was not wise, that I was not perfect.

Okay, you say, they’re teenagers.  What did I expect?  And indeed, I somewhat expected my fall from grace. 

Even though when my kids were little and still adored me, I listened to my friends who were the mothers of teens bemoan their challenged parent/teen relationships with a silent but deadly air of confidence, knowing that would never be me.  That would never be my kids, disrespecting the ground I walk on, making me feel like dog-poopy, capable of even making me cry.

As pre-teen years turned to teens, I saw the writing on the wall.  I went from Mom the superhero to Mother the Maniac, who knows nothing.  I hung with other mothers of teens and we shared our sad tales.  I watched the other mothers, the worshipped mothers of the little kids out of the corner of my eye, and wondered if I should warn them.  And decided against it.  Let them enjoy their blessed ignorance. 

But I have to speak out about the music.  I have to warn those moms that they should sing all the time, because you never know when that song will be the last.

First the kids were embarrassed when I sang karaoke.  Then, they left the living room and made fun of me, even if I sang to myself.  They told me I couldn’t sing along out loud to the radio unless I knew all the words to the song.

They took the joy of music from my life.  They told me that I couldn’t sing. But now, I am taking the music back.  I’m going to sing when I want, where I want, teenagers be darned.  The music belongs to all of us not just them.

So I’ll …

Sing, Sing a song

Sing it loud Sing it strong

Sing about good times and bad

Sing about happy and sad

Don’t worry if I’m not good enough

For anyone else to hear                              

Just sing, sing a song….

<3 <3 <3

TV Time

Life is just one step away from a TV sitcom.  Or maybe the sitcoms are just one step away from life.  I’m not sure.  But, that’s why I watch TV, to escape from real life.  There are some times when it’s more fun to watch other families deal with the same things I deal with, day after day. 

On the small screen, it’s funny.  In real life, not so much.  We all laugh.  Hahaha.  Life is good.

Also, as the mom of teenagers, I am on the lookout for any bonding experiences I can find that the family can participate in together.  If we are enjoying ourselves, that’s even better.  Some days I would be satisfied with just sitting alongside the teens ( Call them Jack & Jill) laughing at the same thing.  So, if it happens to be a silly sitcom on television, is that so bad?

Last winter we spent copious amounts of hard-earned dollars on a winter ski vacation in Maine, even though I do not like to fly and I am not particularly gifted at skiing.  The days spent skiing were great, but the nights that were most successful were the evening spent with rented videos- the fulltime version of a television sitcom.  Otherwise, they just sat around and texted their friends, searching for cell phone reception and internet connection in every room of the quaint Maine house we had rented.

When the kids were younger we spent our fair share of evenings playing Monopoly, Scrabble or working on puzzles together.  With the long summerlike season, there were many playful night swims.  I remember games of Marco Polo and pool tag- or was that on TV?  Now, we are the uncool parents of teenagers and not worth playing with unless other guests are present to make it interesting.

So, we the family, have our favorite shows that we watch together, that help us to bond and to relate to one another.  For a golden half-hour or hour less the commercials, we are on the same page of life.  Is that so wrong?

Cartop Carrier Only Casualty of Family Vacation

“I’ve got some good news and I’ve got some bad news,” announced my husband, as he returned from parking our Honda Pilot SUV in the parking lot, at the ski resort we visited last week. 

We had unloaded the suitcases, duffle bags, blankets, pillows and groceries from the car and brought them up to the room.  Then Marty had gone to park the car, leaving the rest of the family to arrange suitcases into nooks and crannies and put away the groceries into the refrigerator.

“Which do you want to hear first?” he asked.  Without hesitation I answered, “Good news.”

 “Well, the good news is that there’s plenty of parking in the parking garage below,” said my husband, still smiling. “The bad news is that the Honda doesn’t quite fit underneath.” 

He continued on, “I only missed it by inches.”  Tired from the day of traveling up mountain roads, standing in lines for check-in, ski rentals and lessons, I seemed to be missing his point.

“I forgot that the hard top luggage carrier was on top of the car and I didn’t make the clearance,” he clarified.  “The carrier’s trashed.” 

I thought I might tell him he was stupid.  I thought I might say our luggage will never all fit back into the car without putting something on top of the car.  I thought about reminding him that the carrier wasn’t even ours, because we had borrowed it from our friends, the Whitleys, who had used it many times without incident.  I could say, Tom Whitley never forgot the carrier was on top of his car and drove it into an underground garage.

Then, I remembered that it was the season of grace and forgiveness and that Mary would never have chewed out Joseph in front of the children, and I didn’t say a word.

I’ll admit, I sulked a little that night at dinner.  But, the next morning when we loaded our ski equipment into the car to drive to the nearby ski area, we headed straight to our car in the parking lot.  It was easy to spot, with that big, destroyed black box on top.

I did draw the line on purchasing some rolls of duct tape to strap around the top of the carrier for a temporary repair, even though my husband, along with many other men, thinks duct tape can repair anything.

The rest of our time skiing was a great success.  We didn’t break any arms or legs on the slopes.  I didn’t fall off the ski lift, a constant but unreasonable fear.  We even drove several hours in a snow storm, over slippery mountain roads, to visit my husband’s family, in nearby Webster Springs, without incident.  That is, unless you count the multiple stops for puking.

So, all in all, I’m thinking that the loss of the carrier wasn’t such a big deal after all.  We’ll get home and buy our friends a new one.

Anyhow, when we got to Webster Springs, the fresh snow made making a snow man, snow angels and snow ball fights grand for our Florida–born and bred children and their cousins.  And, turned upside down, the damaged car top carrier made a dandy sled for everyone to ride coming down those snowy hills.

Plus, we determined that if all the blankets, pillows, suitcases and duffle bags didn’t fit back in the car, that tying a child or two to the top of the car, might make for a peaceful ride home.