How a Class I took Taught Me about Learning

I love to learn. I have always loved to learn, and taken classes whenever I could. When we lived in Italy in 1984-87, I was able to complete my Bachelor’s Degree in English by taking classes at the Army base we were stationed at, Vicenza Army Base, through University of Maryland, European Division. However, no matter how many classes I took in Vicenza, there were still classes not available there that I needed to take to graduate. To complete these, I took classes by correspondence, and a creative writing class in Denia Spain on the Costa Blanca during the spring equinox.

One of our discussions onsite in Paris for our class.

     

 And I took, with a girl friend Susan, a one-week class in Paris, France in July 1985, “Expatriate Writers in Paris at the turn of the Century (Fin de Siecle).” We were given a list of eight books that were written by American authors who lived in Paris at the turn of the 20^th century to read and evaluate. Then we took the overnight train from Vicenza to

Me on the overnight train from Vicenza Italy to Paris

Paris to join the group of students. We shared a tiny hotel room in the center of Paris and met each day to visit the sites that were important in the lives of the expatriate writers we were studying, Henry James, Edith Wharton and others. We were immersed in the whole “Paris” experience—the art, Art Nouveau, Oscar Wilde, and theater.

       

 Each day was an adventure as we discussed the authors, their books, and the art that influenced them. There were no multiple answer quizzes, no true/false tests. Everything was discussion and dialogue. The two teachers directed the discussions, but allowed free expression and ideas. After classes we met at street cafes and talked some more.

        

As our week drew to an end, we had decided what the thesis of our final paper would be—what direction it would take about which author/s. Then our instructors realized that Susan and I would be leaving from the Paris Train station and our final Paris Project was set. The Paris Train Station was built in the late 1800s and was a favorite site for people to meet and see off their friends as they left for places all over the world. Our instructors reserved a room in the train station and planned a formal “farewell” for Susan and I. It wasn’t a normal party—it would be like someone in 1899 or at the Fin de Siecle would dress and act. Furthermore, each of would choose one individual in one of the books we had read and discussed, come dressed as that person, and stay in character all evening as that person. That would portray our in-depth knowledge of the character and book, and be included in our grade.

  

Susan (far left) in costume at the Paris Train Station

 

 

 

I can remember Susan and I looking all over Paris’ flea market for something to transform our clothes into a turn of the century costume that we could remove in a second after we boarded the train to look normal. My final costume included my black slip wrapped around my head; I purchased a flamboyant feather plume, black gloves, and a large black nylon scarf/shawl that I wrapped around to look like a long skirt. You can see Susan in

Me for my final project at the Paris Train Station

the mirror taking the photo, with a red wrap, paisley full slacks and one of my print scarves on her head. 

      Our teachers and others wore more elaborate costumes, but it was a fun and exciting experience to pretend to be a fictional character and to try to remember everything. I can only recall that I was a character from an Edith Wharton novel, and worried that someone would catch me making an error about a fact. I had to make up some reason for her to be taking the train to Vicenza because in the book she never went there—but that was acceptable.

      

Our instructors at the Paris Train Station

 

What did I learn from this class, besides the material taught in the class? I learned how you can make any class more interesting by making it more personal. You can relate anything to the student’s life and it will become more alive to them. You can involve them in role-playing and they will understand how another person feels.

I learned from that class that teaching is more than lecture—speech, talk, discourse. Teaching is imparting knowledge, enlightening, educating (teaching comes from “to lead forth”).   

 When teaching is done right, learning is fun.

Winter Lessons

Marlowe taking care of Athena Christmas 1970

The winter winds blew so coldly and I felt so vulnerable as I left the pediatrician’s office with my 18-month old daughter, Athena. The doctor had said her cough wasn’t anything serious and hadn’t given me anything for it, but I was still worried. She kept coughing and coughing. It was only a few days before Christmas in 1970, and I was living in a small upstairs apartment in Bountiful, Utah while my husband was serving his second tour as a helicopter pilot in Vietnam. My oldest son, Marlowe, had just celebrated his third birthday, and he held onto Athena’s hand as we walked to the car, telling her she would be better soon.

 Ed had left for Vietnam in mid-November and I’d felt very brave and self-confident then. But the cold, snow, and Athena’s cough, had weakened my resolve. But since the doctor had said Athena was “okay” I decided to do some more shopping. I just didn’t want to go home to my empty apartment. It was dark before I got home, and the phone was ringing. I grabbed it, and tried to get the children’s coats off as I talked on the phone. I was surprised that it was my dad. He was very worried and explained that he had been trying to locate me for hours. 

Beth Christmas 1970 Bountiful, Utah

“The doctor’s office called me when they couldn’t reach you,” he said.  “You had put me down as an emergency contact. The radiologist looked at Athena’s x-ray and said she definitely had pneumonia and you needed to get her back to the emergency room at Hill Field as soon as possible. They have medicine and treatment waiting for her.”

I looked at my toddler, whose coat I had just taken off, and who was coughing again. What a lousy mother I had been. I had kept her out all afternoon when she was sick with pneumonia! How grateful I was that my father had been able to get the message from the doctors and notify me. 

Later that same winter I was feeling lonely and isolated. I had no one I could relate to. I missed my two sisters who were closest in age to me. Both were married and living far away. One had one daughter Athena’s age, and the other was expecting a baby the same time I was, in February. How I wished we could do things together; but we were so far away and long distance phone calls were so expensive. Our mother had died not long after I had married so none of us had had someone we could call on for motherly advice.  Dad lived in the same town, but he worked swing shift. My younger brother at home was 16 years old; my youngest sister had just turned 14 years old. My mother-in-law lived several hundred miles away; she had remarried recently and her husband did not care for my husband, so I did not feel I could call on her for help or advice.

Marlowe & Athena 1970

One of the other “Waiting Wives” in Bountiful had three small children about the same age as mine, and I often thought to call her and do things with her. However, I knew she had many siblings who lived in the area, and I kept thinking that I was being a bother to want to do things with her when she was probably doing things with her family. When I went back to the pediatrician to have him check to make sure Athena was completely clear of her pneumonia, I met my friend there in the waiting room in tears. Her youngest son was very sick, and she had no one to take care of the other two while they hospitalized him. I immediately offered to take them home with me, and was surprised that her family had not offered to help her. 

“They are too busy with their lives. They don’t understand how it is to not have a husband to help,” she sobbed. 

I realized all the times I had hesitated to call her because I thought I would bother her when she was busy with her extended family, and she was just as isolated as I was because her husband was in Vietnam. I decided then to reach out to each woman whose husband was in Vietnam—whether they had a lot of extended family or not. We were in a unique situation; no one understood what it was like and how we could help each other like we could. 

Athena & Marlowe playing in the snow 1971

It was late in January of 1971 when I got my last lesson. I awoke to my three-year-old son crying. I went to him and tried to comfort him, but nothing would help. He was doubled over with pain. He was in so much pain that he couldn’t talk. Finally I realized that I needed to take him to the emergency room. It was about 3:00 in the morning, and I was frantic. I couldn’t take both children out in the cold to the emergency room, so what was I to do?  I prayed; I knew Marlowe had to go to the emergency room. Something was desperately wrong with him. 

I decided to call my father. He worked swing shift. He would come over no matter what the hour to babysit Athena while I took Marlowe to the emergency room. I called and he came right over. I’ll never forget what he said when he saw Marlowe. 

“He’s wheezing, Beth. He has asthma.” I was shocked. I had had asthma as a baby, and for a year as a teenager, but then I had mainly coughed continually. I couldn’t remember wheezing, or even what wheezing was. 

“Can’t you hear him wheezing?” Now that I listened of course I could hear the wheezing sound. “That’s why he can’t talk—he can’t breathe.” My father knelt down and carefully touched Marlowe’s doubled up diaphragm. Marlowe jumped and cried. “He’s wheezed and struggled to breathe so much that he’s pulled the muscles in his diaphragm, pour little guy. Get him up to the emergency room.”

All the way up to the emergency room with Marlowe crying and wheezing in his car seat, I kept thinking what I crummy mother I was—I didn’t even know when my own child had asthma and I endangered his life. It took my own father to tell me what to do. At the emergency room, they quickly treated him and told me what to do. 

I had felt alone that winter, and that year—and often very inadequate—as young parents often do. But I wasn’t alone; of course we are never alone. The Lord is always aware of us, and our needs; he uses those around us, then as now—family and friends—to help us meet the challenges of life.