Hope Girls

The other day I sat down for a cup of coffee with a group of teenage girls. They were all laughing, some frowning at the vanilla latte they ordered for the first time, all were enthusiastic on a Saturday. I watched these young middle school girls interact in an environment new to them - the local coffee shop. They immediately settled in to joint tables and absorbed the culture of conversation and people.



My heart sang a song last Saturday with these girls. My Navy son told me he would rather face some pretty tough guys than a room full of teenager girls. I talked with him about my upcoming volunteer work and what he thought of me giving my heart away. In the email he sent me about the hormones and attitudes of girls, I wondered at that moment if I should turn tail and run.



I have three sons, all having travelled through the murky waters of being a black male teen in America. I understood what they needed. I knew how to love them and guide them.



My fellas also knew that I understood their pressures. They knew I was safe. They also knew I would love their friends. Everyone, from the youngest to the oldest, had buddies that knew dinner at the house was at 6:30pm. Meals stretched for this large family and an extra chair was always waiting. The guys understood that I understood that sometimes they just wanted to relax and get away from the pressure, my home was such a place.


They understood the rules of the house - no cursing, no hats, no sagging, no N words, no girls, and no misogyny. "Yes ma'am," they all replied. I would greet each new friend with the rundown - who was he, who were his people, what grade was he in, what kind of grades did he get, etc. My sons would just stand at the door alternately shaking their heads in mock embarrassment and smiling at my comfort level with their crew. It is the same now, the young men of Hope Unlimited are getting to know me, yet I feel a sense of connection that they know I get it. So I'm beginning a journey with the girls.


So when I think about this new relationship building with the teen girls, I stop and wonder if I chose them or they chose me. Perhaps this is the part of the marathon I've been running at a slow and steady pace. A friend of mine reminded me once of God's call on my life to minister to women. My vision of that became structured along church lines and more traditional roles until God had to show me something different. Ministry, true disciplining, happens outside the four walls. It is in that understanding that the Hope Girls have captured a permanent place of my heart.


My own girls have taught me some things about the turbulent and swirling ocean of girlhood in the 21st century. At ages 4 and 6, respectively, my girls have contrasting personalities and definite opinions. My elder daughter, the butterfly princess who is into clothes and computers, is also the one who can make the hair on my neck stand on edge. She can let out a glass-shattering scream that makes my heart skip a few beats. I close my eyes and wonder if she and I will survive the inevitable event in a few years when menopause and puberty barrel through our lives.


The thought of hanging out with a bunch of girls has had to develop in me over a lifetime. I'm almost 44 and had to form a love for women. As a teenager and as the step-daughter/step-sister in a strange household, I didn't hold much love for the female species. As I grew to a young woman in college, there was a tug in me to join a sorority to reach "sisterhood" until I saw the sorors fighting. I grew up with catty women and didn't want to pay my hard earned money to join a group. Sometimes I regret that decision and wonder if I prejudged them. At other times, I think I made the right decision because I had to become a full woman myself before I could accept God's beauty in the creatures He formed. Beyond the comparisons of hair, makeup, jewelry, clothes, and men, there resides in the heart of women a desire to connect and belong to another sister. It is this that keeps me in my moms group and what throws the covers back on a Saturday morning.


I heard once that is you educate women, you educate the world. I know that if women are empowered and begin to see themselves as advocates and not pawns in a male-dominated society, mountains will move over and take notice. It is this belief that fuels the fire in my heart to mentor the young ladies to become more than what their circumstances, community, media, or video says they should be.


My waking hours over the past month has taken detours as I see the faces of the girls at tutoring. I sit in anticipation on Saturday mornings, waiting for the first tentative hand on the door to enter a world they don't know. My mind and heart say silent and audible prayers - God please let me connect with them. I see their faces and wonder if I have enough to give.


So on our first outing, I took them to my favorite place - the coffee shop. After we had our drinks and were settled down on a mildly cold early afternoon, I stopped and took notice. They didn't see me watching them, as if I was watching poetry in motion. I stood to the side and looked around the table at the beautiful black women they would become. It was at that moment, after spending the morning in a Bible study session and cramming them into my van, that I realized, one person can make a difference.


All kids want to be loved and it is a wonderful gift to be a trusted adult they can turn to. The times we live in now are turbulent with race and economic issues played over and over in the media, both locally and nationally. The young people are under much more stress than my youth at East Elementary School and Simenson Jr. High School in Jefferson City MO. Our life issues in 1976 were much different. So I watched them discuss relevant events concerning our Kirkwood community and perceptions of black youth. They spoke with such maturity and wisdom that belied their 10-15 years.


I smiled, a little moment, over a cup of coffee, and a connection happened. I will have to tell my son that I survived my first real session with a group of teen girls and it wasn't like boot camp! I will have to tell him that my heart is full and I want to be a blessing to him. I want him to know that we talked and chatted for what seemed like hours, all of us reluctant to make the trip back to their homes.


For a few moments, on a Saturday, hope rang through the voices of teen girls. I have to audacity to believe they can do anything. I can't wait to see how the story of their lives unfolds. My latte mug is ready, the coffee is brewing, and Saturday is only five days away.

Watching Her Play

My daughter is pretending to bowl.

She set up three shoe boxes on their ends and used her playground ball. She is at the end of the dining room, using the hardwood floor as her alley. The red ball travels down the "lane" and she watches with the same intensity of her first trip to the suburban alley

I am sitting her watching her. My mind tells me to finish that last load of laundry before bedtime. My heart is telling me it can wait. This is a moment that won't be here tomorrow.

"Mom, look at what I did all by myself!" She calls out to me with the triumph of a little one who discovered the joy of creativity. Her game of bowling turned into basketball with our dining table serving as the background for her hoop. The hoop is her dolls carrier and the former "bowling" shoebox. The red ball is now a basketball and she made a shot that would rival Michael Jordan's glory days. The joy she gained in the few minutes of play is something the leading toy companies, commercials interrupting her cartoons, or pretty packaging can't deliver.

Watching my daughter play and create games are part of the rewards for working at home. She often sits beside me as my fingers fly away on the computer. There are moments her presence warms me and I glance at a baby picture of her in with that cherubic face and for a second, I can still smell that baby scent. My daughter is my constant companion and my ever delight.

It is spring break and my three youngest children have been home all week. I admit that my patience has been tested and my last nerve stood on edge when the six-year-old let out a glass shattering scream; yet I realize, these are the moments of life. I will dream of this time when I put that suitcase in the car and send my last one off into the world. For now, I will give her that moment of my life, held captive by her husky, squeaky voice inviting me into her world. She won't always be four-years-old beckoning me to watch her. The laundry can wait, this can't.

Thinking About Ethnic Pride

It seems that I have been thinking a lot about race, class, and ethnicity.

Perhaps it is because of the election. Perhaps it is because of the call for healing Kirkwood. Perhaps it is because art has imitated life and I've had a view of both.

The other night I watched The Nanny Diaries on my pay-per-view cable channel. It struck me as a little funny how the rich, white (English ethnicity?) ladies of the Upper East Side couldn't manage to feed their own children or give them a hug. They hired out to do that, did they even have the child?

There was a scene with all the nannies picking up the chubby-faced preschoolers from one of Manhattan's designed-to-guarantee-Ivy League-preschools when I noticed all the nannies. Most were East European, Latino (Mexican, Salvadorian, you name it), Caribbean (likely Jamaican since English is the main language), or young white and fresh from college American girl. The little terrors (only because they really want the attention of their power-hungry, adulterous fathers or emotionally-absent, consumer-maven mothers) would run down the stairs and greet their nannies in everything from hugs to kicks. I said a silent humpf.

The 21st century version of domestic-servitude has changed hue (once, this was the almost exclusive domain of black women from slavery until the 1970s). The methods and reasons still exist. The movie did an excellent portrayal, howbeit funny, of the callous behavior of some people with money. It wasn't as if these society mommies were actually working. There were moments I wanted to jump in the screen and pop some sense in the mommy who would throw her shopping at the nanny and demand more and more of her time. The Jamaican nanny commented that she came to this country to give a better life for her son but she has spent more time raising these kids that her own son has essentially been motherless, being raised by his Grandmother.

The treatment of the mommy, Mrs. X., was deplorable and totally devoid of any humanity. And this is 2008 and still happens. What is it with the English? I can't even say this is behavior of all rich people and certainly not all white people but it had me think about slavery for a moment and the "house maids" who did everything for the mistress. Was it the newly arrived English maiden's ever present quest to be like the royalty of England? After all, our country was originally an English colony with its Lords and Ladies, Gents, Lords of the Manor, and servant class.

My lesson in life and other ethnicity's was also enhanced again by art and a delightful movie, My Big Fat Greek Wedding. I was cracking up at the life of Toula, the 30 year-old maiden living at home with her "windex-cures-everything" father who was very vocal about his Greek pride. Her mother's remedy was "Toula, eat something" but she had a keen way of understanding this patriarchal society and worked her husband to benefit her daughter.

I identified with the multiple cousins and huge family gatherings. They were Greek Orthodox and my mother's family is Catholic, complete with a couple priests. I understood the male position as the one to make all the final decisions, even for his unmarried adult children.

The movie chronicled Toula's life growing up, being laughed at by the "blond girls with Wonderbread sandwiches." She was decidedly ethnic in the 1970s Chicago neighborhood. Her father insisted that she and her brother attend Greek school and learn their language, history, and customs.

I laughed at the scenes of the cousins dressing her for the wedding and the evident love they had for each other. This show depicted a genuine love and respect but also of the slice of America. The father came to this country with "only $8 in my pocket" and built a restaurant. There were family members with a travel agency and a dry cleaner all within a working class neighborhood of Chicago. The Greek flag was proudly flown and even painted on the garage. It was rich.

I thought about the Chicago Irish and the recent St. Patrick's Day festivities I'm sure included the Chicago River turning green. I never went to the parade, always having to work on March 17th. I worked at a big accounting firm with a lot of 100 Irish people and they were equally proud of their heritage and equally as Catholic as my ancestors. Dogtown here in St. Louis had their fun that included lots of revelry and beer. It was identifying with a people who shared similar background and heritage. I thought of the movie with Ed Asner as the proud, Irish father and pub owner who just wanted a heart for his unmarried daughter.

My musing turned to The Hill neighborhood with everything proudly screaming Italian. I drove through this area just off Kingshighway and Shaw and marveled at all the green, white, and red flags. I chucked when even the fire hydrants were painted to reflect ethnic pride. The quiet streets on this Sunday afternoon included little, brick bungalows, no McMansions or mammoth garages here. I saw the Catholic churches and schools, the restaurants, and all the locally-owned shops. They were a city unto themselves. Only in America. I'm sure this neighborhood would've been like the Italian neighborhood in Spike Lee's Jungle Fever.

Then my thoughts turned to my little piece of St. Louis. Here in Kirkwood there is much healing that is still trying to take place in the wake of February 8th. This is a town in black and white. Historically, some of the original settlers here were English and German. They were not working class by the size of the mansions that line Dougherty, Woodbine, Argonne and Taylor. This town was built up around the railroad and as an escape from the influx of immigrants in St. Louis over 150 years ago.

The rich of Kirkwood had nannies, servants, and some had slaves. The mother of the shooter was a nanny to one of the Kirkwood rich and even nannied his children when he grew up. These stories are not unusual in the St. Louis region. Even my husband's aunt, who migrated her from Mississippi, worked for a rich, white family as a domestic. This is the origin of Kirkwood.

Then I turn to the little neighborhood to the southeast corridor just off I-44 near Kirkwood/Lindberg and Big Bend.

Meacham Park was once 155 acres of proud, albeit not rich, blacks who were segregated from the surrounding, all white communities. They made their own. There were grocery stores, churches, beauty and barber shops, auto shops, dry cleaners, and other businesses. Teachers, insurance salesmen, even professionals were named among their number along with the domestics, blue collar professions, and the poor. Their homes were more 2-3 bedroom bungalows or shot-gun houses and not as resplendent as their neighbors in Kirkwood.

Meacham Park was an unincorporated part of St. Louis County and has a rich history. The annual, summertime homecoming event still takes place with people returning to their neighborhood from all over the country. Multiple generations can trace their heritage to this little place. Pride of self and achievement are evident as one walks the halls of the Milton J. Turner Middle School on Milwaukee Avenue. The halls ring out of the hopeful young men and women nurtured under the watchful tutelage of caring teachers. The Catholic church even had a presence among the very spiritual community.

Then Kirkwood annexed them in 1991 and promptly razed half the community in favor of commercial development like Target, Wal*Mart, and Lowe's. The hurt is still felt in 2008. I thought about how this could happen here and not on The Hill or in Dogtown or any other white, ethnic neighborhood. Is it the city was back by the police who haven't always been favorable in black communities? Is it because the neighborhood saw themselves as American and thus did not fly the red, black, and green of the black flag? Is it because they were not on the police force like the descendants of Irish immigrants? Or weren't in a stereotypical mob like Tony Soprano of HBOs Sopranos?

Some of the thoughts are because of the legacy of discrimination and segregation that forced blacks into segregated areas, even those with careers like law, medicine, and education lived among those who had blue collar jobs. It served as a rich tapestry of humanity in areas like The Ville in St. Louis where my family thrived as far back as the years before the Civil War. My great-grandparents were all educated, middle class, prosperous. They sent all their children to college, even my grandmother, a woman, was sent to Kentucky Normal, to be educated. Her mother before her was educated as well as her father.

I thought about the two families that would be the backdrop of my heritage. My grandfather, along with his two sisters were sent to Illinois to pursue college degrees. His mother, a French-speaking woman of Creole descent who's mother was kidnapped as a little girl from Hispaniola (born in the Dominican Republic, kidnapped from Haiti, brought to New Orleans with her mother, taught French, married a Frenchman) at a time before the Civil War, was also educated. The man she would marry, my great-grandfather, came here from Tennessee and was a businessman on the Biddle Street Market. It is a rich heritage, and they all lived in The Ville. There were middle class blacks along with working class blacks.

My family background made me think about my heritage in relation to the movies and neighborhoods I visited. Decidedly Catholic, definitely Creole, clearly educated, totally American. My mother's family didn't display the black-pride flags, my mother was born in 1924, a time before that was accepted. My family did celebrate their heritage and my aunt still talks about "those old Creole ladies" in remembering their refinement and social graces. They were middle class, a feat among itself in deeply segregated America.

Yet, separate wasn't equal for black Americans. I completely acknowledge that my Irish and Italian brothers and sisters also had a hard time assimilating into the American (decidedly English) culture when they make the trek from Europe. The difference is they brought their language, culture, foods, flags, and customs with them. The descendants of black slaves from Africa were stripped of their language, foods, customs, culture, religion, and name when they were forced into servitude. Even blacks like my family, who were not slaves, were subject to the discrimination of America.

The unique culture of New Orleans in the antebellum south was a three-tier, Catholic, French culture. The gens de coeulr libre had to keep among themselves, intermarrying, in order to maintain their middle-upper income status. This society still exists. The infamous Quadroon Balls turned into upper income Cotillions and are still practiced rites of passage for upper income black girls. The Jack & Jills, the sororities, and the Links all have a young woman presentation evening. It was part of upper income, free black culture that has been passed through the generations.

My thoughts have still been deeply steeped in this muse on culture, class, race, class, income, class and identity. I wonder if my neighbor up-the-street, proudly flying the Italian flag, would shudder at me with a black national flag? My husband and I discussed this and he said it is probably because of American fear that there isn't a public, visual, showing of a black pride neighborhood in a Kirkwood neighborhood because it would be deemed radical.

There is still the unwarranted fear, traced to slavery, that if black people were educated about the laws, corruption, and behind-the-door dealings, that there would be uprising. There is still the suberversion of black voting, understanding that one vote makes a difference. Police still follow black cars and eye a "crowd" of five black teenagers suspiciously on the square without eyeing the same "crowd" of white teenagers on the square.

During slavery, clearly an economic system first that was easier to regulate by instituting racism since the Africans could never blend in like the Irish, Italian, German, and English immigrants. The slave masters kept their slaves in ignorance by stripping them of their heritage and publicly beating them if they refused to take an English name, by beating or killing them if they learned to read, by segregating them, raping them (all those very light, some almost white slaves didn't happen by accident) by instilling division in them though favoring light complexion over dark complexion, by Jim Crow laws after the Emancipation to keep them further regulated. I trace the history through the Civil Rights Era all the way to the history of Meacham Park and Kirkwood and all along I see etches of proud black people enduring, surviving, hoping, believing.

So what do I make of it, this musing over culture? What do I think as I drive through The Hill or watch a decidedly ethnic-pride movie? What do I think about the Caribbean neighborhoods in New York that are able to proudly proclaim ties to Haiti, the Dominican Republic, or Jamaica? They are immigrants, even three or four generations in this country, who can still hold onto their language, customs, foods, and name because they were not subjected to the horrors of slavery and blackness in America. I wonder as black people who can only trace their heritage to bondage in this country, try to carve an identity when Africa is a vast continent with about 50 countries and hundreds of tribes, languages, customs, religions, and names. How can they fly a flag of pride when they don't know if they came from Ghana, Kenya, Senegal, or Nigeria?

I'm happy for those who can trace their heritage and proudly display it like my Irish, Italian, or Greek brothers. I think of my favorite restaurant in the Central West End, decidedly Greek, and how much pride they display. I think about St. Louis Coffee Oasis and the proud Middle Eastern owner. Then I think about Meacham Park and their pride as they fight to maintain their history, ownership, and tradition.
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What I Think About All This

I usually don't use this space to talk about politics. These are not usual times. I thought about the election and the events over these past few months that ultimately made my decision this morning. I am writing about all this.

Americans under 40 are almost overwhelmingly gravitating toward Senator Barack Obama. He represents youth, vitality, hope, resurgence, re-invigoration, honesty, and the future. The young people of the United States have watched what the Baby Boomers (Bush, Clinton) have done to the world and are anxious for a paradigm shift.

The last twenty years of politics in our country has been in the hands of a "ruling class." The years of Clinton were good for the economy and morale...to a point...until all his dirty dealings became apparent. The country thought we were headed for moral decline and did an about face to elect George Bush to the highest office in the land. Buoyed by the religious right and outrage over Whitewater, Monica Lewinsky, and Mrs. Clinton's ties to Wal*Mart and commodities trading, the country wanted "religion." Mr. "MBA" "good buddy" "baseball owner" "good Texan" Bush sailed into office the first time without a clear agenda except vindicating his father, Former President Herbert Walker Bush's good name after the Gulf War. Dubwa was a voice to the powers-that-be...Halliburton and Dick Cheney's crowd...that led us to war and to some very select people getting very rich. The country wanted a "religious" president with good "morals" and ended up with a never ending war, senators and aides not acting very moral (sex scandals with minors and unmentionable encounters in public washrooms), and a crushing economy. The youth, some barely able to vote during the 2004 election that was court-awarded and not publicly-elected, have watched it all, and decided, it's our turn.

I have watched all the happenings every since Senator Obama announced his candidacy on an icy day in February 2007. It has really been a year since he set out, a man with a "pitch black father" and a "milk white mother" (his description), to seek the highest office. The very idea that he believes in America and in the promise of America is energizing the youth. The world is watching and the children are watching. The question is, what is the country going to do?

The voting in Ohio and Texas is over, the caucus results still waiting to be fully tabulated, and the question now posed is what will Mr. Obama do in light of Mrs. Clinton's politics-as-usual attacks? He has vowed to run a different campaign. He has energized and brought more people to the voting ranks than any other candidate. His slogan, "Yes We Can!" feels a lot like the young people who rallied behind Senator John Fitzgerald Kennedy and brought about the Camelot Era we all still hold in high esteem. It has been a generation, decades, since the young (those under 50) have felt so much passion and optimism for this country.

It all strikes me this morning as I listened alternately to the broadcasters on CNN and The Today Show talk about "what happened" in light of Texas and Ohio. I had a brief flashback to 2004 with the butterfly ballots, hanging chads, and Florida...the stolen election of President Al Gore. I had a flashback to the previous economic downturns of 2001 and 2003 and now 2007/2008...all under the good-buddy president who was appointed president in 2004 because of his Republican money connections in Florida and the Republican dominated court that ruled him the winner even though Gore won. I hunkered down like other Americans to endure another four years and said not in 2008. Yet I sit here and wonder, what would happen.

Mrs. Clinton and Mr. Obama both have about the same resume. She claims 35 years of experience, but 32 of those years were just being married to Bill, that doesn't count. She was First Lady for 8 years...that doesn't make you any more qualified. Mr. Obama was a community organizer and then was in Illinois legislature for 8 years. I count being a state legislator more qualified than being married to the head guy. Most politics is local and he had to do a lot to win downstate Illinois so his platform of inclusion, being for all of America, and working across the aisle appeals to me. Mrs. Clinton would be an effective president if she were elected, the problem is that her trustworthiness hangs in the balance. She is 60 years old...a baby boomer whose time has past. She doesn't speak to my heart or to the heart of any of us under 50, or those who graduated from high school in the 1980s.

So the race continues as stodgy,old,and boring Senator McCain gears up for the national election. I close my eyes and cringe at this grandfather leading our country through the next decade of this young century. We need someone with a vision for the future with a global perspective. Auma Obama, the elder sister of Barack Obama stated, "He can be trusted to be in dialogue with the world." That is important in a time of this American recession reminiscent of the 70s, early 80s, and even some pundits dredge up memories of the Great Depression. A lot of our landmarks are owned by foreign governments, we owe money to China, we import cheap Chinese goods at the behest of the dominate Wal*Mart retailer, and we have kids who can't read. Math and Science scores are in the toilet and teachers are drilling urban kids on which oval to darken on one of Mr. Bush's No Child Left Behind tests. Big Business won't turn this country around, the 0.1% of the nation's wealthy won't turn this country around, it is going to take the rest of us and that is why I support Senator Barack Obama for the presidency.

Mr. Obama's website has a quote, "I'm asking you to believe. Not just in my ability to bring about real change in Washington...I'm asking you to believe in yours." This is where the youth have caught the vision. Hundreds of thousands of $5 donations gave him the money needed to fight the Clintons (him and her) in the early days of his campaign. These same individuals who want to believe, college students, young mothers, professionals, even my son's middle school friends, are looking for the rest of the country to realize now is the time for America to own up to her promise. Mr. Obama has sparked enthusiasm for a country that seems out-of-touch with the housing crisis, the high cost of fueling the family fan, the rising prices of milk and bread,and the crippling debt of students reaching for the college dream. The future is watching.

It dawned on me in all of this that only in politics can someone be as old as dirt and still apply for the highest office. The young people are watching this also. My background is in business, I'm in my early 40's and in some companies, I'm deemed too old to hire. Barack Obama's youth is being touted as a liability, he is older than I am. Hillary Clinton would have been forced out of some companies at 60. John McCain is beyond the age of when my grandparents passed away. It makes me wonder what is not lining up. It is precisely Barack Obama's youth, his family, his relevance to those under 50 that makes him the right candidate. Hillary Clinton got the rural, blue collar white vote and the over 65 vote. How can those over 65 make the right decisions for a future they won't fully live out? Let the ones who will be saddled with the debt of this war and the debt of this president be the ones to decide, not a bunch of aging baby boomers and their parents. The rest of the world is watching and ready for a dialogue with someone with the knowledge that it can't be business as usual in 2008, that 2009-2013 are critical years into the future.

Barack Obama has a task before him. The country also has a task before us. We must decide if we want the same old Washington antics that benefit the few and leave the majority out. We must decide if we really want change and are willing to take the risk to make that come to fruition. We must decide. I hope we make the right decision.

Snow Day Boredom!

It's another snow day, another day with a house full of kids - my own plus my cousin's daughter. They keep running to the window to look at the quarter-sized, fluffy white flakes stream down from the heavens as if the shower had been left on. The schools cancelled before the first flake but in the wake of the icy roads and impending storm, wisely called it off. I thought though, wisely for the parents or the kids? This morning I'm beginning to wonder.

My daughters normally don't wake up until after 9am, giving me 2-3 hours of quiet bliss to write and meditate on the day. This morning my phone rang at the get-mad-at-the-world-hour of 5:30am. It was a recorded message from the school system letting me know the kids would be cocooned at home today. I turned on the morning news report to see how much this was real or hype. I started dozing off when my phone rang at the haven't-had-a-latte-yet hour of 6:30am. It was my cousin asking if I would watch her 11-year-old daughter today, she still had to report to her job. I replied no problem and decided my morning of sleeping in was over.

After I showered and started a pot of French press, I thought about if this was going to truly be a snow day or just a miss by the weather folks on Channel 5. I poured myself a cup of good-morning java and sat at my computer to read the blogs on the primary in Texas and Ohio. I turned and the sky was starting its reluctant nudge from darkness to light without a snowflake in sight. I finished the first cup and the various articles on CNN.com and the Washington Post when I turned to look out the dining room window, a deluge had begun!

I thought about what I would do with the kids today. My youngest daughter padded her way down the stairs at 8am in time to see the snow coming down. She was rubbing her eyes in the really cute, still drowsy way only a four-year-old can. She nuzzled my nap and was preparing to go back-to-sleep when she noticed the SUV pull up to the house. It was my cousin and her daughter. My little one sprang into action as if her legs were made like a Slinky. She ran to the door to help me greet them from the winter blast. She knew it was going to be a fun day.

My little girl ran upstairs to get dressed while I settled her cousin in for the day. At the noise, my six-year-old also woke up and got dressed. They had the twinkle in their eye of an unexpected girl-fest. I just smile and wondered if I had enough snacks and games to keep them occupied.

I peaked in at my thirteen-year-old son and realized he probably didn't even know school was out. A brief, albeit mommy-mean, moment crossed my mind to pull the covers off him and drill him on why he missed the bus. I'm not maniacal, it's just I couldn't get my son to go to bed at a decent time last night and am almost always greeted with this herd-of-horses tumble down the stairs followed by the rafters-shaking door slam every morning that he sleeps late. My tenderness took over and I tip-toed to his bed, past the mountain of dirty clothes and strewn action figures, and pulled the covers up to his chin. He didn't stir when I leaned down and kissed him, he looked so sweet, I just let him sleep.

The morning wore on with the girls jumping up and down, running from the computer to the breakfast table and back again. I settled down at my desk just off the dining room and started my work when within an hour, I heard the dreaded phrase, "I'm bored." It had only been an hour! What was I going to do the rest of the day?

I thought back to my youth in the mid-1970s and how much fun we had on snow days. We couldn't wait to hear the report, "schools are cancelled today." My step-mother always made a big pot of hot chocolate - the old fashioned way - and just kept it simmering on the stove. We would rush through breakfast, don two or three layers of clothes, add hat & gloves, boots, jackets, and race out the door. We lived right in the middle of a big hill with perfect slopes down either side. My brother and step-brother would grab anything resembling a sled and get to work sliding down the hill, stomach first. My step-sisters and I, even the youngest one, would alternate between making snowmen or snow angels. We would stay out there for hours and hours, oblivious to the cold, the reddening of the nose and ears, and the numbing of fingers and toes. Our play would go on for hours and hours until one-by-one we would walk around to the back door and come inside.

We would shed the layers of clothes at the back door and emerge into the warmth of the family room and plop down on the floor, looking out the patio door at all the snow. Our thawing out process included warm soup and foamy mugs of hot chocolate. We would play games ranging from monopoly, war, or backgammon. If we tired of those games, we would pull out the dolls and race cars, the music would crank up and we would take turns learning the hustle or as the years went on, Michael Jackson's robot. We would watch the old black & white Abbott and Costello re-runs or some other show like the Partridge Family, Brady Bunch, Charlie's Angels, or Starksy & Hutch. My elder step-sister would escape to her room to get embroiled in the latest saga of General Hospital or The Young and The Restless, a ritual that was usually reserved for Christmas or summer break. One thing we never did on those coveted days was tell my step-mother "we're bored." We knew if we uttered that phrase, she would assign us some dreaded chore like cleaning out the basement, washing the walls, or polishing every bit of silver in the house. No, we knew not to say that, we kept ourselves busy and if she walked by the family room with all six of us lounging around, we would shake up the dice on a Yahtzee's game or deal some cards to make sure we appeared sufficiently engaged. We never got bored.

So here I am, thirty-five years or so since my youthful snow days and my girls have become bored after an hour of play. I pointed out all the things they had to occupy their time and after much prodding, sent them along to play dominoes. They are now upstairs, the thirteen-year-old is finally awake. The kids are crowded around his Nintendo playing a game.

The flakes are coming down with a vengeance, as if the universe wants to blast us with one more reminder that it really isn't spring until March 21 even though Easter comes early this year. The reminder is especially to us in the Midwest, the weather changes in St. Louis so rapidly, we all just say, keep watching. Today is Tuesday and it is 25-degrees. Sunday was a balmy 78-degrees, my girls went out flying kites with their father.

It is time for lunch and after a morning of computer game, a cartoon, 1/2 a movie, a quick game of dominoes, dressing dolls, running up and down the stairs, playing jump rope, and looking at a game, I wonder if I'll hear the "I'm bored" for the next six hours!

Spring, looking forward to it!