Betty Whitaker Jackson

So I’m working on my memoir, and wrote this piece about my first year of teaching. Can anyone relate?

Rain Reflections

Not every day is sunny in my garden. Today the heavens are teeming with a morning rain washing God’s world. The heavens have opened, and a steady downpour splashes the pavement, lands with some considerable force on the newly opened Easter lilies I’ve waited for weeks to open. I’m sure it’s spoiling someone’s wedding day, planned in an outdoor garden with mild zephyrs rustling the organza princess-styled dress and sending sweet flower scents through the gathered crowd.

But I now smell the dampness, the wet dirt, the awakened mildew and mold, and bruised herbs as the soaking rain continues to pound.

Of course, I know my garden will benefit from it; I know it’s necessary; but today it strikes me as similar to the mood I’m in. It’s a bit dreary. I’m sort of in a funk. Ever feel that way? After all, I’m spending hours of my Saturday grading 135 essays. UGH!

While I wait for the winds to die down, the sudden downpour to pass, I’ll allow a little time for a minor pity party. It’s a balance to the usual “I’m fine!” “Good Morning!” “Isn’t this just a beautiful day?” attitude which my persona puts on because it’s what everyone else expects from me.  After all, I think:, look at all the reasons I have to be joyful! I’m young, I have no strings, my health is stellar, there are endless opportunities out there just waiting for me, I’ve finished college, I’m dating enough to make me believe in possibilities, all’s right with my world?

Well, sort of. Times of indecision are troubling to me. It’s like when I think all my ducks are in a row, quacks come from the sidelines. Questions keep plaguing me, like: Do I really like teaching all that much? Isn’t there a better way to spend my evenings and weekends than correcting papers that the kids will just ignore? When I look at people who have done this for their whole careers, is this the picture of how I want to look? They’re tired, worn out, discouraged, complaining, and too poor to live well.

I miss my college buddies. I miss the challenge of the academic life where I felt stimulated and alive. I liked the freedom of coming and going as I pleased. Now that I’m back home, I feel constrained to please others. It’s not that I’d dare to be anyone other than my conservative self; it’s just that this transitional stage of waiting for “real life” to begin could become a long-term proposition. Is this all there is?

Now the downpour is a real gully-washer. No doubt about it, it’s a rainy day, complete with thunder, lightning, and drenching raindrops sheeting horizontally by driven winds. These are the legendary moments before a shipwreck on craggy shoals I’ve read about in adventure novels. These are the buffeting winds attacking solitary lighthouses, tearing through thatched cottage roofs, drenching the dens of sleeping wildlife.

My mind delves into disastrous mode. What if disease strikes? What if I don’t get that fellowship for my masters? What if I can’t decide what I really want to do with my life? What if the Vietnam War thing really becomes an all-consuming war? What should our country be doing about all the riots in the streets and the awful racial conflicts? What if?

And just as suddenly as it arrived the pouring rain becomes a shower, a drizzle, and drip drops of tiny puddle whirlpools, each droplet making ever small impacts on the surfaces. It’s over. The sun peeks through, a double rainbow arches overhead, the leaves shimmer with sunshine rather than glistening rain, and the beautiful lily once again raises her head, none the worse for wear or worry. She’s all right. She’ll rise again. All is well.

And so, I’ll finish grading these essays, correcting another set of incorrect use of “it’s and its,” “there, their, they’res,” and “your and you’res,” put the comments in the margins in green ink so as to be gentler about the corrections than using red, assign one grade for content and one for technique, and provide generous praise for the one phrase which shows a bit of promise, spend another twenty minutes recording the grades so I fulfill the accountability phase of my expected duties, and then try to piece together the fragments of my life, pick up the proverbial pieces, garner the few minutes I have to salvage from the too-short weekend, and get ready for the “Good morning, class! I’m glad to see you today!” greeting for yet another Monday.