My bucket list is a bit different:

1. Get married
2. Be a parent
3. Be a teacher
4. Make a difference
5. Publish a book of poetry

My list has no places I must go or people I must see and try to meet.  Although there are some of those, there will be no regrets if I do not.  The list directs my life and my choices.  Nothing on my list can be bought with money even though money is needed to live in this world – enough is good.  I can say right now I have accomplished them all.  I got married Oct. 17, 1987, and we are still married. I became a parent Aug. 7, 1990 and again May 29, 1995. I achieved my teaching certificate in 1983 and my first paid teaching job that fall. I publish By the Pond (Dreams, Imaginings, Musings) in May 2015. However, my list is a continuing ever moving set of goals.

Let us talk about #4. Making a difference can be accomplished in so many ways. Ways never seen by the world a large. Obviously I hope I do this for my children. However, it is very important for me to make a difference for children that are not mine. I want share the first time I really felt this happened. In college at Western Michigan University, we did what was called participation before student teaching. I was placed in a 4th grade classroom at Brucker Elementary in Kalamazoo in fall of 1980 I think. The teacher was an older, very tall, and scary white man. His temper scared me. I almost requested a new assignment but decided to stay. After some soul searching, I decided that class needed me. The school had a large African American population and even the white students were low income. It was my first experience working with a large percentage of African Americans. The students were very standoffish and did not smile much or approach. An all new experience for me. Kids take to me but not these. Slowly as semester progressed they began to come around. They started hugging me and talking to me. Louis (white) always came way early to school and waited for the doors to open. He always looked like he needed a bath and his hair washed. When we moved in the halls, he would walk holding my hand. Even back then that was a little old for hand holding with a teacher. Ursula (black) was a beautiful, tall, and proud girl. When I put my arm on her chair, she would pull away so my arm would not touch her back. She slowly relaxed a bit. Christmas time drew near. I usually made Christmas tree cookies with the name of the students I was working with at the time. I did this for this group.  No group ever reacted the way they did before or after. They were so excited. I heard them talking about how all their names were on them. Then I heard the words I have never forgotten, “That’s because she knows all our names.” What kind of experiences had they had that they felt after three months I would not know their names. I had a list of course to be sure I did not miss anyone. Some ate them but many others wrapped them to take home. This is the moment I understood what making a difference really meant.

There were more experiences there but I will save them. Making a difference sometimes means sticking it out. Making a difference is about them not me. Sometimes it takes time and work. I have so many stories about so many students over the years. Students that years later tell me they miss me. Students even though in middle school or high school still hug me.  Most of my bucket list continues. I never have needed to be famous or rich to accomplish it. I am still married. I am still a parent. I am still a teacher. I know I still can make a difference. I have published my book of poetry and have a second almost ready. Making a lot of money not my goal. Those who need to read my poetry will and that may not be a lot of people.

My Fifteen (moments of fame) on page 35 of By the Pond is about I see making a difference for me.

My Fifteen

(moments of fame)

may my fifteen

slip silently into eternity,

as if my voice never cautioned or encouraged

and my face by none recognized,

except for a melody of simplicity,

hidden deep in distant memory,

heard sung and taken to heart

by our Heavenly Father’s finely tuned ear.

may my fifteen

rest in the heart of a child long grown—

our paths now no longer coinciding—

remembering with feeling,

in a moment still and soft,

a memory—a seed long ago planted

and nurtured in times long set aloft—

a seed in an attic room waiting,

an epiphany’s dawning

through the water flowing

by way of sorting and throwing

memories fore gathered

and put in safekeeping.

may my fifteen

be thoughts of remembering,

a direction changing

back in those forgotten moments

set aside as lost to be found enduring

the momentum of years coming and going—

may similar thoughts as these softly sing my legacy:

“when there was not a possibility to be seen,

she did reach out to me.”