WordSisters

Author: Ellen Shriner

  • Peach Seed Mystery

    I have very few memories of the man I knew as my grandfather (Mimmie, my great aunt and Pa, my great uncle raised my father). Pa was a white-haired smiling presence during our weekly visits to Mimmie and Pa’s duplex. He was a quiet man, but many 77-year-olds would struggle to find something to say to a 5-year-old. During one conversation, I recall him teasing me about having “strawberry blonde hair.” I was sure he was mistaken. I had “yellow” hair. 

    He also fed squirrels on their wide front porch. Pa would make a clicking sound similar to a tsk to call them, and the squirrels would take shelled walnuts from his open palm. Apparently, he was unaware or unconcerned about squirrel bites or rabies. He taught me to make the clicking sound but told me never to feed the squirrels without him. He’d gotten in trouble with Mimmie when a squirrel slipped into the house and climbed the drapes. After that he was more careful.

    I’m not sure how I came to have his peach seed monkey—whether he gave it to me because I liked it or if it came to me after he died when I was 8. It’s a peach pit carved in the shape of a monkey and it has tiny red eyes. As a girl I was sure they were rubies, my birthstone. That peach seed monkey was forgotten in a drawer of keepsakes until recently, when I read The Peach Seed by Anita Gail Jones (a novel I recommend). 

    Before the novel, I didn’t know carving peach pits was a thing. I used to assume Pa carved it, but now I speculate about its origin. Born in 1882, he’d lived through WWI, the Great Depression, and WWII by the time I knew him. Was the peach seed monkey a bit of tramp art he bought during the Great Depression to help somebody who needed a handout? Did he pick it up as a novelty at a county fair? Did a friend show him a peach seed monkey and Pa decided to carve one? He might have.

    Pa liked making things. He was a firefighter stationed in a neighborhood that had few fires. To pass the time during slow shifts, he made a small burgundy afghan using a technique that was a cross between weaving and braiding. Mimmie, and later, my mother used the afghan when they took naps.

    I’m left with this odd artifact, scattered memories, and a lot of questions. I keep it in my office along with other mementoes that bring to mind my parents and grandparents. 

    I still prefer to believe the monkey’s eyes are rubies.

  • Graduation 2024

    The School for Adults teachers coaxed me to attend the Honors Program and General Education Diploma (GED) Graduation because I’m a volunteer tutor. I was somewhat reluctant since graduation usually means long speeches, uncomfortable seating, and potential boredom, but I’m glad I showed up. The pride of the students being honored touched me. 

    I followed the crowds of American-born and Spanish-speaking students and their families as they streamed in. All were dressed up—women in dresses and heels, men in fashionable clothes. In other families, the women wore special hijabs—dark colors embroidered with gold threads or embellished with gold sparkles along the cuffs. Everyone’s children wore their finery. 

    The place looked and sounded like a party—music played, a long table was laden with cupcakes and other sweets, and round tables were covered with pastel tablecloths ready for families to gather after the ceremony. I found a place at the back of the hall next to another tutor, a retired engineer from India who helps students with math.

    My role is working one-on-one or with small groups to help adult learners improve their writing and reading comprehension. Some of the students are native English speakers who got off track and didn’t finish their high school degrees. Others are immigrants learning sufficient English so they can attend college or keep up with their children’s schoolwork. Some students have university degrees from their home countries but have to start over here with a GED. When I tutor students, I ask their goals, but I don’t ask why they dropped out of school or what their immigration status is. 

    I was pleased one of the GED graduates I know was a featured speaker. She’s in her early 20s and a native speaker, so her language skills are good. She didn’t need much from me–math was her nemesis. For four years she showed up, sitting quietly in the back when class met in person. During COVID, when classes and my tutoring went online, she was in and out of class, but she persisted.

    Her speech was plainspoken but so heartfelt. Her pride in earning the GED, a milestone many of us take for granted, showed. Now, with the equivalent of a high school diploma, she plans to work full time to save money for college. 

    Another GED graduate I know is a woman from Sudan. Her written and spoken English are very good, she and was so skilled in math that she could have taught the class. I met with her once when she wanted an explanation of a writing assignment. She required a GED so she can pursue her dream of going to medical school. 

    A student speaker in his 30s spoke in heavily accented English about leaving Venezuela. He has a family and was established in his career, but political turbulence forced him and his family to leave. He spoke with passion about his gratitude for the opportunity America gave him. Now that he had his GED, he hopes to become an electrician and have his own business one day. 

    The majority of the students made level gains, meaning they advanced from basic to intermediate or from intermediate to advanced classes. Level gains merited a ribbon which students wore proudly. Their accomplishments are so hard won. 

    I am in awe of these students’ persistence. Their progress is slow. Many start and stop because they’ve changed jobs or don’t have daycare. Most don’t have time to do schoolwork at home. But week after week, year after year, they show up. I wonder how many of us who finished high school by 18, would work as hard to get a GED. The facts of their stories may sound ordinary, but for them, the diploma is life-changing. 

    So often I feel discouraged about the state of the world, but seeing the students’ pride and sheer joy in their accomplishments renewed my faith in humanity. 

  • Seeing Forward and Back

    I’ve cared for enough older women in my family to see the frailties I may have in the coming years. I’ve learned to be patient with their slower pace. I accept the extra steps they take to stay in charge of their lives—switching glasses and putting them away carefully and doublechecking locks. I already do that. I’m accustomed to the effort invested in maintaining dignity—looking where I’m walking, dressing comfortably, but well. So far, I’ve managed to avoid the flat bedhead spot so many older women seem unaware of!

    Some days I feel exactly how old I am. My hip twinges a little. Or I can’t think of a word and it comes back five minutes later. I have a wealth of experiences and insights but the wisdom to know I should refrain from giving too much unasked-for advice. At this stage of life, my outlook is measured. Realistic.

    Other days I feel like I’m fifty. Nothing aches. I’m energetic, ready to tackle big projects, and confident they’ll turn out well. The future is off in the distance and looks bright. I’m optimistic.

    My thirties are also vivid—relived through the lives of my daughters-in-law. Revived by their pregnancies and new motherhood. I remember how fascinating my changing body was and how much it mattered to have a few maternity clothes I really liked. 

    1989

    I haven’t forgotten the fog and overwhelm of life with a newborn. How every little thing worries you. I also know you can grow bored by the long repetitive days, no matter how much you love your child. How ready you can be to use your brain for something besides calculating the hours since the last feeding. But the sweetness of cuddling a sleeping baby tempers that restlessness.

    When my son hands me his baby, our past, present, and future converge.