The Scoop

 

A hundred years ago, I was living in New Orleans, and, sister, I needed a job. I was in for a rude awakening. There were no openings for teachers. Nada. Zip. A big fat zero. I needed a job. Employment. Regular paychecks. I heard about an opening in a little town south of New Orleans called Port Sulphur. I called the principal and put on what I hoped would pass for self-confidence.             

“I understand you have a teaching position opening. Don’t hire anyone until you meet me!” (I was such a doofus at that age.)

            He laughed. “When would you like to interview?”

            “Tomorrow.” I knew I sounded like an overly eager beaver, but I wanted that job. You have no idea.

            I consulted a friend who had a sense of style.

            “You need help. You’ve got to make a good impression,” she said.

I was a tomboy. Born and reared in the tropical country of Panama, I had a lot to learn about life in the big city. My friend loaned me a dress with a mini skirt. I don’t know what we were thinking in the ‘70s. Those skirts were SHORT. She also suggested a few more necessities to improve my chances of being hired: make-up, Lee Press On Nails, and pantyhose. I understood the make-up and the fake nails, but pantyhose were new to me. Panty-what? We didn’t have such in the jungle. Nope. Not ever.

“Look for them where they sell the eggs,” she coached.

I searched K-Mart until I had to seek out a worker. “Uh, sir, where are the eggs?”

“We don’t sell eggs.”

“My friend said to look for pantyhose near the eggs.”

“Oh. You mean L’eggs.” He eyed me like I had just fallen off the turnip truck.

The L’eggs wall was a veritable Shangri-La, a cornucopia of glittery plastic eggs. I had no idea that you bought pantyhose by size and color. I ran my hands along the lot of them until I stood transfixed in front of the shiniest of all, silver. It was a wonderment. To me it could have been Fabergé.

Interview day dawned bright and early. I showered, did my hair, put on make-up, pressed on my Lee Press Ons, and threw the miniskirt over my head and smoothed it into place. I unsnapped the silver egg, which hinged in the middle, and lifted the top. I don’t know what I was expecting, but the contents looked like a small, curled animal with wrinkly brown skin. I pulled out the panty hose. They were 4 inches wide and 11 feet long. No kidding. The panty part looked too small for a newborn. I checked the label. Control top. Now, if you’re unfamiliar with control top, let me school you. The Army uses control-top material to stop enemy tanks. Not one has ever broken through. Ever. Spider-Man’s spidey suit is made of control-top material. Olympic trampolines are made of control-top material. I tried slithering into them. Stretching. Pulling. Sliding. Jumping in place. At one point the recoil bent me backward, and I ended up on the bed in the birthing position, panting. I finally managed to pull the waist up where I thought it should go, but the crotch part was somewhere between my knees and my nether regions. There was still a good 12 inches of wrinkly material hanging off the ends of my feet, but that was the best I could do. I put on my open-toed high heels and tucked the hanging pantyhose part in under my feet. I checked my reflection in the mirror. Not bad, if I didn’t move too much and reveal the crotch of the pantyhose was 1 inch above the hem of my dress.

            At the interview, the principal welcomed me and offered a chair. I walked stiffly and sat down, careful to smooth my hem down as low as possible. I crossed my legs into the position my mother had ingrained in me as “ladylike.” As the principal launched into a diatribe about the need for good teachers, something caught my eye. I looked down. Twelve inches of pantyhose were hanging out of the end of my high heel. My face went scarlet. I reached down as nonchalantly as I could and, keeping my eyes on his, I poked it back into place. I rested my hand on my leg, just above the knee. I felt something bumpy. I looked down. THREE OF MY LEE PRESS ON NAILS WERE STUCK TO MY LEG UNDER THE PANTY HOSE.

A shocked, guttural sound burst out of me. “UUUUUUU!!!” I slapped my hand over the Press On Nails like I was killing the worst mosquito. The principal stopped, mid sentence.

“Are you okay?” His eyebrows raised up a full 2 inches.

“Fine.”

Thank goodness for principals. They can talk all day. He continued where he had left off. I, however, hung between mortification and misery. This was the only job available in the entire free world, and I wasn’t going to strike out because of careless grooming. While the principal talked, I began rubbing my leg with both hands, trying to unstick the nails. There was no way to go but up. My plan was to rub them up out of sight and re-stick them to my leg where they couldn’t be seen. This was hard work. Millimeter by millimeter. Intense concentration. I didn’t hear a word the principal was saying. I went into a glazed over, semi-vegetative state. I lost track of time. I was beginning to make progress when I realized the principal had stopped talking. He was staring, mesmerized.

Thank goodness for pity. His voice was gentle. “Do you need a moment alone?”

Thank goodness for mercy. He left me alone.

Thank goodness for grace. I got the job.

 

Last year, I made an amazing discovery on a teaching trip to San Antonio. I was invited to present two days of workshops at Briscoe Elementary and found some of the most outstanding writing from fourth graders I have seen. The samples were posted on one of the bulletin boards in the main hallway. I tracked down the teacher and found María Elena Arellano, a caring, nurturing DREAM of a teacher. Her passionate, motivating style of teaching is legendary at Briscoe. Another teacher told me her daughter had been in Mrs. Arellano’s class and is still talking about what a great teacher she is. Back at Briscoe this year, I asked María Elena her secret. “I simply LOVE teaching writing. I aspire to create a positive, fun-filled, non-threatening writing environment for my students. Once this is established, they feel free to become risktakers. This is where the magic begins.” Now I wish I could transform myself into a fourth grader and spend a year with this incredible teacher. María Elena, the magic comes from YOU.

Have you ever done something so dumb, so destructive, so heinous that the memory stays with you for a lifetime?

 My husband and I lived in New Orleans but went away every weekend to minister to a small church in Port Sulphur, Louisiana, 50 miles away. I was young and poor and stupid. Emphasis on the stupid part. I still had so much to learn about the savvy of running a household.

 On Friday afternoon, I set out a frozen chicken to take with us to cook for Sunday dinner. I left it on our gas stove where I would be sure to see it and take it with us when we left. Before we closed up the apartment for the weekend, I made certain the lights were out, the windows were locked, and the AC was off. We were too frugal to keep the AC running while we were out of town. And, let me tell you, Sister, the temperature was about a thousand degrees in that apartment without the AC running.

As soon as we got to Port Sulphur, church friends invited us for Sunday dinner. I was thrilled that I wouldn’t have to cook and clean up on such a busy day. I never gave the frozen chicken a second thought.

Sunday night we returned to our New Orleans apartment, and it was dark in the little alcove by our front door. My husband fished around for his keys, unlocked and opened the door, and WAS PHYSICALLY KNOCKED BACK. Instantly. On moment he was fine, the next his arms were flailing, and he was making unintelligible sounds. Then a horrible stench almost knocked me over. Actually, horrible isn’t even in the ballpark. Putrid. Deathly. I am not exaggerating. I wonder to this day why the neighbors hadn’t already called Homicide to investigate.

Now, the weird part was we were still in the dark. Neither one of us had yet made any intelligible sound. All efforts went into pushing and shoving to distance ourselves from the horrendous odor. That’s when we heard a thin, eerie WHISTLING. Demonic. Otherworldly. A high-pitched keen calling from the grave.

I managed to hit the kitchen light switch, and we both saw it at the same time. The raw, three-day-old chicken had spoiled to the point where the bag had blown up as large and as tight as a BASKETBALL. There was a tiny pin-prick in the plastic bag and the escaping gas was making the eerie whistling.

It all came to me in a rush. I had left the chicken. It was rotting in the bag. I had to get it out before my husband left me for someone with better sense. I rushed to the stove and reached out to grasp the now giant sized plastic bag. But, the minute my hands touched it, IT EXPLODED.

I am simply not gifted enough to fully describe the full impact of an exploding, rotten chicken. Mere words are not adequate. The stench, my gyrations, the flying parts, the rain of juices, my disrobing, my language. I think I actually experienced the Dark Side.

It took hours…no, days…to clean everything and fumigate the apartment. Even the curtains had to be taken down and washed. Twice.

I’m older, I’m smarter, and I still do dumb things sometimes. But, this experience gave me a gauge for judging all other situations. No matter what I’m confronted with, deep down there is the comforting assurance that it couldn’t be as bad as the chicken.

 

“Bloom where you‛re planted,” Mama would spout.

I should have listened and not tuned her out.

She said it a lot,

I‛m kidding you not.

“Bloom where you‛re planted, whatever your pot!”

See, I was a kid who might grumble and gripe.

“...Don‛t like my teacher...just not my type.”

But Mama would say,

In her no-nonsense way.

“Bloom where you‛re planted, cause that‛s where you‛ll stay.”

I stayed and I stood, though I kept up my guard,

Knowing Miss Burns would be much, much too hard.

I entered her room

With a heart full of gloom.

And found, with Miss Burns, that I‛d bloom and I‛d bloom.

Call the militia! Call the Marines!

For seven years later, I‛d entered my teens.

I hate to confess

That I‛d stress and obsess,

“I‛ve nothing to wear!” and “I hate this old dress.”

But Mama would say, “Child, we haven‛t a dollar,

But I‛ll change the sleeves and put on a new collar.”

I‛d watch her begin

With her needles and pins,

And wouldn‛t you know it? That dress “bloomed” again.

Then came the time when I left home for college,

Eager to fill up my head with new knowledge.

I wrote home to Mom,

Saying, “Please, please stay calm,

But I‛ve met a guy and he‛s cute! He‛s the bomb!”

Mama wrote back, saying, “Wait! It‛s a phase!

Trust me! You‛ve known him for just...14 days.”

Her words did intone,

“Agree or come home!

Bloom where you‛re planted but right now, ALONE!”

“But Mama,” I wept, “I might be an old maid.”

I launched, to my shame, an impressive tirade.

But Mama held fast,

“It never would last.

You‛ll bloom again—and this too shall pass.”

The years rolled on by, and much later, I wed,

And I tried to “bloom,” like Mama had said.

It was I, now, each day,

When my kids were at play,

“Bloom where you‛re planted,” they both heard me say.

But oh, how we want things—bigger and better.

Then one day we find we‛re a credit card debtor.

My checkbook held naught!

I was in a tough spot,

For trying to live much too big for my pot.

I‛d forgotten to bloom in a pot just my size,

And that is when trouble will always arise.

When debts are assuming,

Mortgages looming,

Odds are that happiness will not be blooming.

My lifestyle had taken possessions for granted.

I had to RELEARN to bloom where I‛m planted.

It isn‛t the “stuff,”

Possessions or “fluff,”

That make us feel deep down that we have enough.

It‛s focusing in on the blessings from God

And learning to live with a life slightly flawed.

The car has a dent?

Your bracelet is bent?

Your son tracked in mud, or worse, wet cement? 

Need to lose weight?

Hairstyle‛s not great?

Don‛t like your husband, or friend, or roommate?

Don‛t have a job?

Head has a throb?

Your boss is demanding and sometimes a snob?

Your son wants a turtle?

Can‛t find your girdle?

And lunch with your daughter is sometimes a hurdle?

Kids always fight?

Can‛t sleep at night?

Your first grader can‛t get her shoes tied just right?

You can go far

In the place where you are,

No matter how humble, how small, how bizarre.

So shout hallelujah! Take nothing for granted.

Give God the glory, and bloom where you‛re planted. 

 

Click here to download Bloom Where You're Planted