LANNY BALL, Literacy Specialist

A few days ago, my phone rang.  It was my father. “Lanny,” he began, “the University of Arizona called me today.” Suddenly my mind raced back in time.  My only brother Sean had attended and graduated from the University of Arizona.  As a brilliant musician, Sean had received a full-ride scholarship for double-bass.  Tragically, on a rainy night shortly following his graduation, Sean was taken from us in a terrible car accident.  My family was devastated.  But during our time of grief, we, my parents and I, were able to generate an idea, an idea to keep Sean’s memory alive.  What if we were to create a scholarship in his name?

Following a conversation with a close friend from college about how to go about this, I phoned the university to speak with them about the idea.  We discussed the difference between a one-time award and an endowment, which would live on indefinitely, thereby meeting my family’s ultimate goal.  Although feeling terrible grief for the loss of my brother, we set to work raising money.  My  father created 56 pieces of art and had some of the images transferred to greeting cards and t-shirts.  We held a benefit where I and some of Portland’s top musicians performed.  Friends and family pitched in to help, both logistically and financially.  In the end, we raised over $20,000 that we were able to donate to the university.  Over the next several years, mostly thanks to the perseverance of my parents, the Sean K. Ball Memorial Scholarship for Bass was awarded to several young musicians.

But over time and through some of our country’s financial hardships, the scholarship seemed to fade.  A few years ago, we heard that there was no longer enough money in the endowment to offer an award to any up-and-coming bass student.  And with my mom’s passing three years ago, my father and I have not been able to find the energy or interest to pursue the topic any longer.

But a few days ago, my father called.  “I heard today that there has been an award made this year,” he said.

“Sean’s scholarship?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes!” he answered. He read me the name of the recipient.  “Sean’s scholarship has been awarded this year!  I don’t know how much the award is, but his scholarship is going to be helping a young bass player this school year.”  

Amidst the current difficult times, I think my dad and I both felt good that day.

Sliding the button to the right, I answered the incoming call.  “Hello?” I chirped, making sure to include a friendly lilt to my greeting.

“Lanny?” came the voice. “Did you write today?”  It was my Gram calling.  In October of this strange and terrible year, my grandmother, Helen Abner Callaway, will turn 100 years old.  Yes, that means she was born in 1920. “The year of Women’s Suffrage,” she likes to remind me, so proud of the monumental step that this legislation represents for women’s rights in this country.

The oldest of five girls, my Gram was raised by farmers near St. Paul, Arkansas.  Sometimes I shake my  head in amazement when she tells me stories of her growing up, such as the one about following her mother to fetch water from a well located several hundred yards from the house, watching as her mother carried a large bucket in one hand while a baby rested on her opposite hip.  I have to marvel sometimes at the change my grandmother has witnessed across the last century.  During her childhood, the family did not even own a phone.  Nowadays I talk to her on a small computer I carry around in my pocket.

Grammy still lives alone in her home in eastern Oregon, the small and humble home where she raised three girls of her own, alongside my grandpa. My mother and her two younger sisters would all go on to become teachers, although the youngest would eventually leave the profession to pursue a successful career in law.  Gram always seemed to believe strongly in two things: Get an education, and be a good person.  If nothing else, she will have always imparted those two values upon me, and I shall never forget them. Gram has much to be proud of.

Recently, Grammy told me of a new milestone in her life: “I didn’t go to the grocery store with [my friend] Mary today,” she said.  “I’m having more trouble moving around these days, and plus I don’t think it’s wise for me to be out and about with this virus.”  She is probably right about that.

Over the last couple of years, Gram has taken an interest in my Slice of Life blogging, often calling me and asking if I wrote on Tuesday.  Last Tuesday the question came again.  “Yes, Gram, I wrote today,” I responded.

I bet she will call today.

One by one, the faces of my colleagues appeared on the computer screen.  While it felt so good to see each of them, I knew our reason for this Reopening Committee meeting carried true gravitas: How to spend the five days of professional development time given to us before our students arrive back in the building at the end of this month?  Several solid ideas were offered by various committee members: Time to unpack and design learning environments (many of us were forced to relocate our classrooms to accommodate decreasing student traffic); professional training on Zoom and flipped classroom approaches (in case we transition to a hybrid model); socioemotional break-out sessions; one colleague suggested a large group discussion to allow teachers to verbalize anxieties.

While these were all sound ideas, I could feel myself shifting in my seat, unable to shake the anxiety gripping my inside. The feeling was tight, uncomfortable. “But I shouldn’t I be feeling good?” I wondered to myself. “Connecticut’s numbers are very low.  Everything will be fine… right?”

Perhaps it’s the uncertainty of how viral breakouts crop up.  But if we all wear masks, it will be fine, right?  Perhaps it’s the uncertainty of how I will teach reading intervention and support the teachers in my building under these conditions. But I’ll figure that out, right? Perhaps it’s the fact my own children will be returning to school.  But they’ll be safe, right?

I have come to realize this is a situation well beyond my control; and despite personal feelings I will need to return to work, follow protocols, and do my best.  I know I am not alone in this realization, as thousands of my teaching colleagues find themselves in the same position.

But somehow. . . I’m not feeling ready. Yet.