Before I became a teacher, a vocation I entered in my mid-forties, I had never heard the phrase “teachable moment.” I like the explanation of the term given by fairygodboss.com: “A teachable moment is an opportunity for a teacher or parent to provide special insights on a topic that has captured the attention of their classroom or children. Teachable moments are unplanned and must be sensed and seized by the teacher or parent…Teachable moments are easier for children to digest and remember because they are inherently more interested in the topic at hand and can feel its applications to the world around them.” 

Now that you all have that straight, let’s think back to teachable moments our parents may have fumbled over the years.

I’ll go first.

When I was about 12, I decided to dig a hole in the garage wall of my home. What precipitated my deliberate destruction? Pure amazement following a TV show that documented a fabulous archeological discovery. The artwork was located in a network of caves in Lascaux, France. Fantastical paintings of animals—magnificent horses, antlered animals resembling elk and deer, bison, aurochs—and the people who hunted them. Six thousand figures in all.

The narrator explained that little was known about the humans who painted their caves with such reverence 17,000 years ago. Still, I was enthralled by these ancient artists and wondered how they spent their days, and how they made their paints, and why they created the vast herds of creatures that decorated their walls.

Then, a light bulb went off. I wondered who might have lived in my own home all those years ago. (No, it did not register in my wee brain that my house in suburban New Jersey was only about ten years old.) I was convinced that, if I looked hard enough, I could discover ancient artifacts that might tell me about the people who lived in my home before my family arrived.

Now, in a perfect “teachable moment” the following would have occurred when my mother pulled into the driveway while I was attempting to pry lose a wall in the garage.

Mom: “Hi, honey!” She smiles from behind cat-eye glasses. “What are you doing with that hammer and screwdriver? Wow! I see there’s a hole in the wall.”

Me: “I’m looking for the ancient people that lived here before us.” I smile enthusiastically. “Maybe they left some paintings inside the wall.”

Mom: Well, aren’t you a clever girl! Perhaps someday you’ll be an archeologist. Want me to help you?”

Anyone who knows my mother is now laughing hysterically. When my mom did pull into the driveway that day and caught me attacking the wall, she marched toward me in her pointy-toed high heels. “What the hell are you doing!”

Up until that moment, I had no qualms about exploring inside the wall for ancient artifacts, but the look on my mother’s face changed my attitude instantly. So, I did what came naturally. I dropped my tools and ran. Mom didn’t have a chance of catching me in her heels, but I could hear her yelling as I bolted through the neighborhood.

Later, my father squinted at me. As part of my punishment, I had to watch as he spent his weekend reconstructing the wall, patching the hole with wire and spackling, all the while muttering under his breath.

Today, I feel my parents failed in the “teachable moment” department. Honestly, I think as a 12-year-old–alight with ancient history fervor–I was damned gifted, though I didn’t hear my parents bragging to anyone about my brilliance and the possibility that I might one day become a world renowned archeologist.

Mom and Dad could have encouraged me, don’t you think? Perhaps you’ll do better when faced with a “teachable moment” of your own.

A WOMAN FLEES AN ABUSIVE HUSBAND

AND FINDS HOPE IN THE WILDS OF THE ARIZONA DESERT.

Published by Liaison – A Next Chapter Imprint

Rebecca Quinn escapes her controlling husband and, with nowhere else to go, hops the red-eye to Arizona. There, Gaby Strand – her aunt’s college roommate – gives her shelter at the Salt River Inn, a 1930’s guesthouse located in the wildly beautiful Tonto National Forest.

Becca struggles with post-traumatic stress, but is enthralled by the splendor and fragility of the Sonoran Desert. The once aspiring artist meets Noah Tanner, a cattle rancher and beekeeper, Oscar Billingsley, a retired psychiatrist and avid birder, and a blacksmith named Walt. Thanks to her new friends and a small band of wild horses, Becca adjusts to life in the desert and rekindles her love of art.

Then, Becca’s husband tracks her down, forcing her to summon all her strength. But can she finally stop running away?

Order your copy here: http://mybook.to/wildhorsespb

The folks who run Major League Baseball are scared. Really scared.

First, kids aren’t playing the game anymore. Gone are the days when children would organize a neighborhood game, pretending to be their favorite players, policing the rules themselves, without parents scrutinizing everything from their playing time to their batting and fielding stats and coaches who often care more about winning than nurturing young people. If you don’t believe me, think about the last time you noticed a child walking down the street lovingly clutching a baseball glove. See what I mean?

Don’t get me wrong. Some kids do play baseball. A lot. They participate in travel leagues, sometimes year-round, a practice that often guts youth and high school teams and leads to baseball burnout because the “season” never ends. Children, some even at the pre-teen level, are being convinced they are Major League prospects. While there are certainly a handful of such children, for the most part, Mom and Dad, your kid is not one of them, no matter how much money you throw at their training.

Speaking of money, kids in poorer communities can’t afford the baseball gloves and bats and shoes necessary to play, not to mention the fees needed to pay for uniforms, field facilities, and umpires. And often in the inner city their are no baseball fields on which to play.

The other problem is the changing dynamics of childhood. Before digital electronics, kids couldn’t wait to change into their play clothes after school and head outside. I know some of you remember those days fondly, but many of today’s kids simply wouldn’t understand why anyone would want to leave the house. After all, with their unfettered access to social media, video games, and streaming services to distract them, there’s almost no reason to ever venture off the couch.

Another one of baseball’s big problems is the game itself. Unlike football, basketball, and ice hockey that have a lot of action, baseball is slower and much more cerebral. At least it was before scoring became the most important aspect of the game. The preponderance of and importance placed on home runs is killing all those beautiful fielding plays that made baseball brilliant.

As a former TV sportscaster and an amateur umpire of almost 25 years, I don’t think there’s anything more exciting than a runner going for a triple. Though a triple play is damn close. And yet for years baseball executives tinkered with the ball to increase scoring. Yes, I know they swear the balls were never juiced, but I don’t believe them. Home runs have soared to ridiculous numbers, which leaves all those fielders standing around doing nothing. That gets pretty boring after a while. By the way, if you’re not sure homers are an issue note that in 2014 4,186 pitches resulted in home runs. In 2019, that number exploded to an all-time record 6,776.

So now, baseball’s bosses are trying something new, albeit at the Minor League level. They are once again changing the ball. Rawlings has “loosened the tension of the first wool winding,” according to a memo from the commissioner’s office. That will slightly reduce the weight of the ball and make it less bouncy, the hope being a reduction in home runs.

But that won’t help solve baseball’s biggest problem: Time. Unlike other sports there is no clock on the diamond. An average MLB game lasts almost three hours and ten minutes. By comparison, an NBA contest averages just two hours and 15 minutes. As our attention spans dwindle, our ability to stay engaged is declining, a situation that is doubly difficult for young people who Major League Baseball needs to survive.

Baseball has already lost its status as America’s Pastime, having been supplanted by football. And, as in all sports, fewer kids are coming out to play. That does note bode well for the future of the games, especially baseball.

A WOMAN FLEES AN ABUSIVE HUSBAND

AND FINDS HOPE IN THE WILDS OF THE ARIZONA DESERT.

Published by Liaison – A Next Chapter Imprint

Rebecca Quinn escapes her controlling husband and, with nowhere else to go, hops the red-eye to Arizona. There, Gaby Strand – her aunt’s college roommate – gives her shelter at the Salt River Inn, a 1930’s guesthouse located in the wildly beautiful Tonto National Forest.

Becca struggles with post-traumatic stress, but is enthralled by the splendor and fragility of the Sonoran Desert. The once aspiring artist meets Noah Tanner, a cattle rancher and beekeeper, Oscar Billingsley, a retired psychiatrist and avid birder, and a blacksmith named Walt. Thanks to her new friends and a small band of wild horses, Becca adjusts to life in the desert and rekindles her love of art.

Then, Becca’s husband tracks her down, forcing her to summon all her strength. But can she finally stop running away?

Order your copy here: http://mybook.to/wildhorsespb

 A few weeks back, I had rotator cuff surgery, the second time I’ve undergone the procedure, which surely means my dream of pitching in the Majors is over. Everyone is so nice now that I’m trussed up in a massive sling, unable to do the simplest things. That the afflicted appendage is my right arm just multiplies the misery.

“How can I help?” “Call me if you need anything?” my lovely friends and family members say. And while I know they mean it, somehow, I can never bring myself to ask.

One reason for my reticence is the memory of the time long ago when I fractured a vertebrae after having been run over by three players while officiating a high school football game. Like today, friends ascended offering their help. I was unable to walk for a short time and was confined to bed, but once I was packed into a brace, I managed to toddle around on my own. Still that was when I really needed help.

“Anything I can do?” a friend said.

Then I made my request. One that I had been burning to ask for weeks. “Please,” I practically begged. “Would you shave my legs?”

Crickets.

Anyone who has ever shaved a body part knows itching is involved if one stops. That no one took me up on my request is perhaps understandable, and now I face similar issues.

What do I need? First, I can’t pull up my pants. A simple problem to rectify, and yet I sense my loved ones might not want to drop everything to run over every time I’m facing that particular challenge.

Then there’s my daily battle with the newspaper. As a former reporter, the thought of getting through the day without checking the news just seems wrong. I’ve been reading a newspaper daily for going on 45 years. The problem, of course, is turning the pages. If you don’t believe me, give that a one-handed try. Anyone want to stand by my side while I read and then turn and crease the pages for me? (And here’s where I admit that I have always had a secret desire to have one of those old-world butler’s who would iron the daily paper for me, pressing out the folds and wrinkles à la Downton Abbey, but I digress.)  

I’m an avid tea drinker, so much so I have regularly made two big pots of tea daily, which is difficult to deal with left-handed. I am often over shooting my delicate, china cup—Drinking tea from a mug is barbaric. Just sayin’.— so my tea ends up spilled everywhere. Maybe the aforementioned butler who presses newspapers could help, but again, my busy friends and loved ones might not be so enamored of the idea of standing by my side and filling my teacup when its empty.

I have often written about the sorry state of my teeth, a condition I blame on my Irish heritage and my love of all things chocolate. I have put many dentists children through college and probably paid for a few vacation homes, as well. So, anyone want to come over and floss my teeth? I thought not.

I could continue complaining about my small, everyday challenges, but I am reminded of a video I saw recently. A lovely young ballerina dances with a troupe, leaping about the stage, all elegance and grace. That the dancer has no arms matters not at all. I think of that young woman every morning as I wrestle my way into my clothes. She inspires me to figure out how to do things on my own in my temporary, one-armed world. So, I will do what I can.

That said, anyone want to shave my legs?

A WOMAN FLEES AN ABUSIVE HUSBAND

AND FINDS HOPE IN THE WILDS OF THE ARIZONA DESERT.

Published by Liaison – A Next Chapter Imprint

Rebecca Quinn escapes her controlling husband and, with nowhere else to go, hops the red-eye to Arizona. There, Gaby Strand – her aunt’s college roommate – gives her shelter at the Salt River Inn, a 1930’s guesthouse located in the wildly beautiful Tonto National Forest.

Becca struggles with post-traumatic stress, but is enthralled by the splendor and fragility of the Sonoran Desert. The once aspiring artist meets Noah Tanner, a cattle rancher and beekeeper, Oscar Billingsley, a retired psychiatrist and avid birder, and a blacksmith named Walt. Thanks to her new friends and a small band of wild horses, Becca adjusts to life in the desert and rekindles her love of art.

Then, Becca’s husband tracks her down, forcing her to summon all her strength. But can she finally stop running away?

Order your copy here: http://mybook.to/wildhorsespb

The little gnome was hanging out with two of his friends. This was around the time those Travelocity ads were all the rage. You remember the ones where the funny little gnome kept winding up in strange places around the globe?

Now you might think the smart folks at the on-line travel company created the wee guy from scratch, but prior to their ad campaign there was a group in France called the Garden Gnome Liberation Front. (I’m not making this up.) The idea was that people had the right to steal garden gnomes with no intention of returning them to their rightful owners. The mission was to free the gnomes and return them to the wild, where the GGLF believed they rightfully belonged.

I mention this because as I stood over that little patch of gnomes, I had a deep desire to pick the red-capped one up and take him with me. However, as a former Girl Scout and recovering Catholic, I shuddered at the thought of stealing, so instead I knocked on the door.

At that time my sweetie pie and I were on a trek in Australia. We were on an outback expedition as part of the Australian Mineral Symposium, where we got to go mining with all sorts of cool rocking people: professors and miners and mineral enthusiasts, which for a rock collector like me was as close to heaven as I’ll probably ever get. (Did I mention I’m a recovering Catholic?)

When the woman who owned the small hotel where we were staying in Coolgardie opened the door, I asked if I could borrow the little guy for the day.

“It’s nice of ya’ ta ask,” she said in that lovely way Aussies speak. “Lot’s a people just nick ‘em and we never see ‘em again.”

“Oh, no! I promise I’ll bring him back,” I assured her.

We had a full day of rocking ahead. But, of course, we wanted to keep him safe, so we strapped him in a car seat and headed out into the wilderness.

Turns out he was quite a good rocking gnome. He wandered around the tailings piles with us, and despite a small spill, he got right up and marched on. He helped me gather lots of lovely gaspeite, a rare bright green mineral the color of a Granny Smith apple.

After a long day of rocking—and an evening of drinking with Australians which takes much intestinal fortitude—I was pooped. My gnome and I needed some shut eye, though somehow he managed to sleep with his peepers open. Lucky for me my sweetie pie is not the jealous type.

The next day I said goodbye to my new friend and put him back with his buddies, so no one could accuse me of niking a gnome.

A WOMAN FLEES AN ABUSIVE HUSBAND

AND FINDS HOPE IN THE WILDS OF THE ARIZONA DESERT.

Published by Liaison – A Next Chapter Imprint

Rebecca Quinn escapes her controlling husband and, with nowhere else to go, hops the red-eye to Arizona. There, Gaby Strand – her aunt’s college roommate – gives her shelter at the Salt River Inn, a 1930’s guesthouse located in the wildly beautiful Tonto National Forest.

Becca struggles with post-traumatic stress, but is enthralled by the splendor and fragility of the Sonoran Desert. The once aspiring artist meets Noah Tanner, a cattle rancher and beekeeper, Oscar Billingsley, a retired psychiatrist and avid birder, and a blacksmith named Walt. Thanks to her new friends and a small band of wild horses, Becca adjusts to life in the desert and rekindles her love of art.

Then, Becca’s husband tracks her down, forcing her to summon all her strength. But can she finally stop running away?

Order your copy here: http://mybook.to/wildhorsespb