Barbed Garbage

We spend a lot of time walking, running and biking around our desert neighborhood. Our adventures are often rewarded with wildlife sightings including coyotes, javelinas, roadrunners, deer, prairie dogs, voles, hawks, bunnies, and lots of lots of quail.

The other day we were delighted by a very rare sighting of a covey of tiny baby quails pecking at what was a loaf of bread tossed on the road the day before. Willow snapped this photo with her phone just before they scurried away and hid behind the creosote bushes.

In addition to the fauna is the beautiful cactus flora, including an endless variety of cactus. And right now, the desert is abloom. The colors are so vivid they will stop you in your tracks—even if you’re running.

Unfortunately, we also spot a lot of trash. In spite of a lifetime of earth days, “don’t be a litterbug” slogans and recycling education efforts, it astounds me that there are still people who feel they have the right to throw their crap out of their car windows instead of saving it for a trash receptacle.

We therefore instigated a family community service project and became regular trash collectors for the neighborhood. And last evening, my girls and I went for our last sunset walk of the season. Community Service hours are due for Student Council, so we figured we’d wrap up the project for the school year.

It’s been a fun way to spend time with the girls—especially because they’re so funny. Camille, for example, loves walking in the middle of the busy street when no cars are present, because I think it gives her a sense of power. And both girls make up stories about some of the items they find: study notes, grocery lists, Slurpy cups, Rock Star cans and the like. “Drinking ‘n driving,” Willow says with a disapproving scoff each time she finds a discarded beer can.

Over the course of our neighborhood scavenger hunts, I’d say the items found most often are plastic grocery bags. They’re EVERYWHERE. And they are particularly treacherous to collect because more often than not they’re stuck to cactus and filled with needles. Straws may run a close second, but aluminum cans and plastic bottles are also shamefully prominent.

The most unusual find of all time has to be the discarded paper containing an acceptance speech for the Mrs. Arizona contest. We kept checking local media to see if one of our neighbors had won the event; however, ultimately made no discovery of crowned royalty in the hood.

Wrapping up the project for the year, we feel our social status may be that of mere trash collectors, but it helped us believe we were doing our part to keep our desert kingdom beautiful.

Volunteer Fingerprinting

Volunteering in the Tanque Verde Unified School District isn’t as simple as it used to be. For the past ten years, I’ve held volunteer roles ranging from kindergarten “Mom Helper,” to reading instructor, to field day obstacle course director, to volleyball coach and soccer coach.  All I ever had to do was show up, sign-in, put a Volunteer lanyard around my neck and make my way to the kids.

This year, however, my desire to volunteer required six pages of paperwork, including my professional resume, four references, a notarized criminal investigation release and . . . fingerprinting.

This additional screening for persons coming in contact with district children may or may not be because of last June’s arrest of the district’s superintendent, Tom Rogers. The target of an FBI investigation since January, 2009, he was indicted on suspicion of engaging in sexual acts with a juvenile boy.

Rogers, hired as the Superintendent in April, 2007, also served as associate principal at Emily Gray Junior High and taught a seventh grade class. I had met and conversed with him many times, and my husband served with him on the calendar committee. Never did we suspect him capable of this type of criminal behavior. But how can one tell?

Currently, Rogers remains in Federal custody and his trial is scheduled to begin December 1. He faces up to 30 years in prison.

Rogers’ arrest has had an enormous impact on the community. Several are outraged that the investigation had been underway since January, and yet the Board of Supervisors wasn’t notified, and his arrest didn’t occur until June. Clearly the authorities needed concrete evidence against him prior to making an arrest. Most of us, I think, are overcome with the creepiness of all of it and have learned the need to place extra scrutiny on candidates applying for positions to have influence over our children.

Even volunteer volleyball coaches.

This year, the junior high school volleyball teams clearly needed some help. Coaches were not in place for either the tryout/placement procedure or the first game. Because of this, they didn’t cut any of the girls who came out for the teams and the result has been a gym-load of players eager to learn and play the game.

My seventh grade daughter is one of them.

So, the minute I returned to Tucson, I threw my ball in the court. I’ve been playing and/or coaching volleyball for about 40 years. I love the game and know most of the girls. And I like them, and want them to have a fabulous experience as members of their volleyball team. I’ve worked with them for two days and today, while they traveled to a far away game, I drove to the district office to get my fingerprints on file for them.

Even though my delightful fingerprint artist made the process fun, and she was as gentle as a manicurist, because this was my first fingerprinting experience, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit like a criminal. I had to sign a few more forms and she thanked me for being a volunteer. Then, she happily took a photo of my ink-stained fingers with my phone.

Thank God she didn’t ask me for a mug shot. It may have been a good fingerprint day, but it was definitely a bad hair day.

The Family That Skis Together . . .

I grew up in a waterskiing family. For two weeks every summer, we left behind the concrete western suburbs of Chicago and headed to Michigan, to a magical place called "Corey Lake." They were the best two weeks of the year.

We had a wooden Milocraft boat with first a 35 then a 40 horse Johnson, strong enough to pull us all out of the water. Pictured in the photo along with the boat, the "VO-5," are (from left to right) Debra, Mary Beth, Tommy, Gayle (who is peeking out from behind my shoulder as I perch on the stern), Dad and, of course, Mom in a stylin' 1960s swimsuit. Mom always got the first ski.

In our family, skiing was a rite of passage. I started at age three--yes, when I was three year-old. The photo of me at right is from the summer of 1964. We used a device known as a "Flexiboard," a set of skies connected at the top. It was handmade by a local man named Mr. Bowers, who lived next door to the cottage we always rented. As evident in the photo, my parents made sure I was safe, dressing me in both an orange life jacket and a ski belt.

One summer on the Flexiboard, led to two skis, then to dropping one ski, and finally, graduating to the slalom level. I have fond memories of my Aunt Eddy bribing me each summer with candy rewards:

"If you get up today and go all the way around the bay, I'll give you a Bubs Daddy Bubblegum," she said. Such sweet incentive worked every time. I soon became an accomplished skier, leaning so far back my ponytail hit the water. I haven't skied that hard since I had kids, but every now and again, I'm tempted.

My husband came from a sailing family, so it was I who introduced him to the powerboat and the exciting activity of waterskiing. It didn't take him long to learn. It never takes anyone I teach long to learn. I've lost count of the number of people to whom I've supplied the basics, including things like, "let the boat do the work."

I wanted our girls to start at the age of three, like me; however, neither was all that interested. But they are now. Willow's been dropping one for a couple summers and then this summer, she decided to try getting up in the deep on one. She did it the first time she tried. And Camille, who suffered a broken arm all last summer and couldn't ski at all, popped right up her very first time out. "That was fun!" she said. By the end of the summer, she even tried venturing outside the wake.

Fun indeed. Here's a little video of all four of us enjoying Camille's last day at Sandy Point earlier this week:

A Sprained Ankle Waiting to Happen?

When they first brought home this new-style skateboard, the Ripstik, it had sprained ankles written all over it. I, who spent a good portion of my high school years on crutches, didn't want to see the same thing happen to my kids. But I don't think either one of them has ankles as skinny as mine. (Mine are like wrists).

I'm happy to report that within just a few days, both Willow and Camille learned how to work these two-wheeled contraptions and they've had a lot of fun with them. Even better, no sprains!

She’s Leaving Home, The Sequel

Two kids means two times the joy, two times the heartbreak. One daughter has just returned from eight days on the East Coast and I think we’ve got her caught up on her sleep and recovered from the head cold she brought back as a souvenir. Oh, and by the way, she ♥'s NY now and wants “to move there right after she finishes college.”

Today, daughter number two, Camille, is off to camp. Thank God it’s only three days for her because I don’t think I could take missing my baby for any longer than that. Not right now.

There was some question as to whether or not Camille would be allowed to go to camp and it was all because one day she drew ♥ ♥ ♥'s on a post at school. Her former friend turned her in, and because it was considered “defacing school property,” she received an automatic pink slip. Pink slip = probation. Probation = You might not go to camp.

Her teacher was VERY disappointed in her actions. She, in fact, referred to Camille’s artwork not as “defacing school property” but as an act of “vandalism.” She called me in for a conference on a Friday afternoon and told me Camille had a 50/50 chance of being allowed to go. “And if she doesn’t go and that means your husband won’t come on Monday and do his disc golf demonstration, so be it,” she said.

She assured me the probationary hearing would be “fair,” but gave me “no guarantees.” I believed I couldn’t possibly live in a world where an 11-year-old would be banned from the main event of elementary school for drawing hearts on a post. Nevertheless, we—Camille, her dad and I—were all left to twist in the wind over the weekend as we waited for the meeting to take place the following Monday afternoon.

I met with the school principal on Monday morning to discuss what I thought was an extreme overreaction on behalf of Camille’s teacher, and this principal assured me that she would act as my daughter’s advocate at the probationary hearing, and that Camille would indeed be going to camp. But as far as I was concerned, the unnecessary damage inflicted upon my little girl, who now thought of herself as “the bad girl,” AND my husband, who rearranged his trip to Wisconsin to be available for the disc golf demonstration, was bordering on unforgivable. And what this teacher also failed to take into consideration, was that I ran the blasted silent auction, donating tons of time and merchandise, which was the main fundraiser for the camp experience. All this for hearts on a post.

I could think of something else I’d like to spray on a post outside of a certain classroom. But, of course, I know better and would never do such a juvenile thing. Besides, I have the outlet of spraying my BLOG with this crap instead of defacing someone else’s property.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The Joy of Being 11 Years-Old

Camille hosted her Zona Volleyball Club team for an end-of-season party the other night. Their coaches, Belinda and Laura, first met the girls at the mall to see a 3-D movie and then they all came back to our house to spend the night.

What a joyful group of girls. They swam, ate Egee's, played volleyball and danced the night away. Whether or not they're aware of the controversial lyrics they're singing while dancing to Britney Spear's "If You Seek Amy" song doesn't matter--at least not to me. (I think they're fully aware). Frankly, I find the song about Helen Keller's hips a little more offensive. And my guess is not one of them knows who Helen Keller was.

The Funniest Thing My Kid Said Today:

A Series
Today’s featured child is my youngest, Camille. The world does not know Camille. She reserves her true self for her family and closest friends. And that makes us feel lucky. In public or in front of strangers, she’s the quiet one, hiding behind her protective parents and the natural grace and charm of her older sister. But at home it’s a different story. From the time she first issued a smile that covered what seemed like half her face, she’s cracked us all up on a daily basis.

It wasn’t until she was seven that I discovered she actually had a desire to be funny. We were on our annual family trip, a gathering of the Cozzens' cousins. This is currently a group of 18 and every year as the table grows in size, it’s harder and harder to get in a word. There’s a lot of natural wit, acquired education, and no place-setting for the easily intimidated. Quietly listening to the banter and seeing how one of her uncles, aunts or cousins could at any moment make the entire group roar with laughter, Camille tapped me on the arm.

“Mom,” she whispered in my ear, “what can I say to make everyone laugh?”

I wish I’d recorded every funny thing she’s said since that day, but I’m making an effort to do so now—hence this series.


We were on our way to volleyball practice. I was in the driver’s seat and Camille, who is still light enough to deactivate the front passenger airbag, was typically mute. I was listening to NPR assessments of the economic stimulus package, navigating my way through the unlit back roads of rural Pima County.

Camille didn’t ask me to change the station to the channel playing the same three songs (“Let it Rock,” “Just Dance” and “Womanizer-Womanizer-Womanizer-You’re-a-Womanizer . . .”), and I knew she wasn’t listening to the latest report of partisan politics.

Feeling a little guilty about not taking the time to have some one-on-one communication with my child—communication that didn’t involve helping her with homework or telling her to wash the dishes—I turned down the radio and squeezed her knee. “Anything interesting happen at school today?”

“Well,” she said without the slightest hesitation, “a girl ripped her pants when she did the splits on the playground.”

With a simple visual in my head, I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. We both did. And so what if there was a little touch of schedenfraude?

“Did everyone laugh when it happened?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said, “but then we all helped her by giving her our sweatshirts to wrap around her legs.”

“Poor kid! I bet she was humiliated.”

“She was, but we got her to laugh at herself and she was okay.”


I turned the corner, heading into a busier section of town, and knew that Camille had definitely learned how to make everyone laugh. She can make them laugh not only at her, but also at themselves. That’s a gift.

Smiling, I turned up the radio and changed the dial. The tinny tune, “Just Dance” filled the car and together we bobbed our heads all the way to the gym.