Peony from Mom's Garden

By A.E. Bayne

An Excruciating Exercise in Memory

Nine-hundred and seventy: That is a close estimate of the number of students that I have worked with on a daily basis over the past eight years as a high school and middle school English teacher. I started thinking about this number after running into three of my former students at Blockbuster last night. I am always a bit surprised when I bump into students, which shouldn’t be the case, as I live in the same part of the county where I teach. It shakes me up a bit though, because I tend to live in my head a little too much at times. The conversations usually go something like this:

Student: “Ms. J!"

Me: “Huh? OH…HI!”
If it is a young person, I always say this in a pleasantly surprised tone because most of the time I don’t recognize them right away.

Student: “Do you remember me?”
They always ask this with a hopefully expectant look on their face.

Me: “Yes! Remind me of your name though…”
I hate to ask, but 970 people, come on!

Student: “It’s (fill in the blank), from (insert school name here). I was in your eighth-ninth-tenth grade English-creative writing-SAT prep class-newspaper-literary magazine club-etc.”

Me: “Of course!”
The student’s face slowly becomes recognizable with the two new points of reference, as the synapses and neurons in the recesses of my cortex fire rapidly to open some dusty file.

Me: “How ARE you?”
This is usually a productive way to stall for time, as most students will tell me about what they have been up to for the past year or two. It doesn’t always work though. Some students respond with “fine,” in which case I might have to prompt them for more information.

Student: “Fine.”

Me: “Great…How ARE you?”

Damn, I just asked that. I meant to ask, “What have you been up to?”

Student: “Fiiinnnee?”
Okay, I messed up. The student looks confused and is probably thinking I have cracked.

Me: “Well, what have you been up to? How is high school-college-parenthood?”
Phew; back on track and now the ball is in their court again.

Student: “Oh, you know, I’ve been _______________________.”
You can fill in the blank here. Some students have done well; others are more vague about how things are going, which means that they are probably not on a track that they think I would find acceptable or respectable, or whatever they perceive society’s opinion to be that year. I am always disheartened when this happens, because if they knew me at all they would understand that I threw expectations out the window a long time ago.

Me: “That is so great.”
I am not a very eloquent speaker.

Student: “Yeah…”
An awkward silence ensues. The student knows they should ask something about my life, so they ask the only thing they have a reference for concerning my life.

Student: “So, how are your classes this year? Do you still like teaching?”
They always ask this.

Me: “Classes are really great this year. We have many bright students on the team.”
As I said, I’m not an eloquent speaker.

Student: “That’s cool.”

Me: “Yes, it’s been a great year. Well, it sounds like you are doing well. Good luck next year, and thanks for saying hello.”
I don’t mean for this to sound like a dust off, but it’s apparent by now that we have run out of things to say.

Student: “Sure, Ms. J. It was good to see you.”
They look relieved, but happy to have talked with me, nonetheless.

This is not to say that I do not have students that I remember well from the past eight years. There were those who were the intellectual giants among their peers, who seemed to have an eerie combination of perfect well-roundedness: Andy, Aaron, Daniel, Rebecca, Jacob, Erin, Molly, and Dana. Some, I remember for their sweet quirkiness and charm; and still others for their struggles to excel despite inhospitable home environments: Devon, Daniel, Abby, Amy, Tyresha, Kyle, Erica, Alex, and Amanda. Unfortunately, there are also those who remain infamous in my memory, for threats made against me in the classroom, or for crimes later committed when they were adults. Despite each student’s inherent worth and individuality, some memories do tend to fade over time.

So what? This post is rather banal, and I apologize for that. It does make me dig further back in my memory for teachers from my own school years. Read further if you wish, but know that I’m conducting this exercise solely for the purpose of jogging my own memory:

Parkwood Elementary

Kindergarten: Mrs. Eaton

First Grade: Mrs. Easton (not to be confused with the Mrs. above)

Poignant Parkwood Memories: May pole on May Day; performance of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” complete with costumes; showing a boy my underwear behind the trees; singing songs from The Sound of Music while swinging with friends; having my best friend purposely stamp on my hand so that I would fall off the ladder leading up to a tree house on the playground; See Spot Run; first and second grade combined in a classroom; my starring role as Fern’s mother in Charlotte’s Web; raising my hand to go to the bathroom; and pencils and crayons.

Our Lady of Good Counsel

Second Grade: I cannot remember her name, but she had her boyfriend come in and sing Cat Stevens songs to us and play his guitar; she left teaching two years later

Third Grade: Mrs. Goddard (or maybe she was the other teacher)

Fourth Grade: Mrs. Petersen

Fifth Grade: A young teacher, only taught one year, cannot quite remember her name

Sixth Grade: Sister Helen

Seventh and Eighth Grade: Mrs. Petersen; Mrs. Graham; Sister Helen (a different one); one more I cannot remember

Outstanding Memories from OLGC: Using the parking lot as a playground; Chinese jump ropes; scratch-and-sniff stickers; being boy-crazy, as my mother put it; writing notes to friends; rumors of a girl having sex in the 8th grade; paddling; fun fairs with fish prizes; a cafeteria that wasn’t a cafeteria; projects, poems, and art prizes; dance recitals; church on Fridays; Catholic ceremonies; frenemies; catty fights with girlfriends; betrayals; new friends; loneliness; parties; feeling like a fat wart; looking for people who were more hideous than I was so I’d feel better about myself; class clowns; meeting my oldest friend, Lee, in 2nd grade; and cliques.

Bishop O’Connell High School, Falls Church

Freshman Year: English - Mr. O’Brien; Latin – yet another Sister Helen (“you be yellin’, Sister Helen"); Band – Mr. Jackson; wow, that’s it

Sophomore Year: Biology – Mr. Carpenter (had a big toe sown onto his hand in lieu of a lost thumb); Religion – Sister Marie DeLourdes; Latin, year two – Sister Helen, again; Choir – Mr. Milton

Out-of-the-Ordinary Recollections from O’Connell: Goofing around in English class; hating P.E. with a vengeance; Drama club; sitting above the stage in the rafters of the auditorium during play performances; skipping class to create scenery for Once Upon a Mattress; adolescent betrayals by a best friend; my first broken heart; a suicide attempt; school dances; breaking a boy’s heart because someone more popular asked me to Homecoming – wow, bitchy moment there; writing for the lit mag; skipping choir a few times each week to hang out and watch the P.E. classes; driver’s ed movies (ugh); marching band rehearsals; hearing this line from a good friend I had started to like, “We just don’t mesh”; eating an apple for lunch every single day; watching a friend drop acid in geometry class; dosing on No-Doze; The Dead Milkmen, R.E.M., and Pink Floyd; passing notes; and walking into a pole when my father came down the driveway in his very loud, frog green Datsun to pick me up one day.

Paul VI High School, Fairfax

Junior Year: English – Father Fitzpatrick; Science – Mrs. Kecena (“the key to chem is try,” I called her a very nasty name beginning with a “c” once while walking away from her in the hallway, hope she didn’t hear); Math – eh?; Social Studies – Mr. Hostuttler (goofy Parrothead, jock guy; we ignored each other); Spanish – nope?; Choir – Mrs. Piplani; Newspaper club – Mrs. Carson.

Senior Year: Religion – Mr. Diavies (didn’t agree with a thing he taught); English – Mrs. Draude (her husband was in the first Gulf War); Government – Mrs. Becker (showed us All the President’s Men, a favorite movie); Math - ?; Choir – Mrs. Piplani, again; Newspaper – Mrs. Carson, again; Creative Writing – a teacher I loved, but cannot remember her name

Pics from Paul VI: Chicken pox, finally; a red Mohawk; punk rock; falling in love with my first serious boyfriend; sex at 17; VA Beach choir trips; friends in a hardcore band; first car; first car accident; McDonalds and Little Caesars by the school; passing notes; graffiti on my bedroom wall; boredom; feeling jealous; feeling pretty; feeling ugly; friends whose parents allowed us to stay overnight and drink; blacking out while drinking (well, I don’t remember it, but I heard later I was quite a sloppy drunk); kissing in the hallways; getting yelled at for kissing in the hallways; smoking in the bathroom; smoking at McDonalds; burning incense in my car in the morning; meeting one of my best friends, Kathy; dances and games; and Wintergreen Lifesavers in a dark car.

Yes, siree; memories are slippery little things. I should remember more of these teachers; I should remember more of the friends who have influenced my life. Perhaps my profession pushes out some of my own school memories in favor of making new ones with my students each year. Perhaps my life as a single parent, raising a phenomenal young man who surprises me each day with his wit and candor, has replaced some of the less monumental moments of my own past. I accept that compromise willingly. I suppose I should be happy when my students approach me out in public, because one day they may not remember our time together at all.

In Memoriam...

By A.E. Bayne

Tuesday night, I attended the viewing for one of my former Drew Middle School students, Aaron Shacklette. I heard about Aaron’s car accident over the weekend from a Drew colleague, and I immediately remembered him as one of the brightest students I have ever taught and a true young man of character. Former teachers and coaches were quoted in the paper testifying to Aaron’s natural leadership abilities, his affability, and his popularity among his peers, a point proven by the line snaking out the doors of Covenant Funeral Home in Stafford. The parlor was opened wide, with a viewing and congregating area stretching across three rooms; and it was packed with his friends from Stafford and Randolph College, where he attended this past year. Aaron was involved in such a variety of activities while in high school and college that at least five groups had arranged stations to highlight their memories with him. While standing in line, I found myself thinking about the Aaron I knew, the 8th grader Aaron, with his goofy smile and poetic sensibilities, and his talent as a visual artist, a truly gifted young man.



Inevitably, my thoughts turned toward the senselessness of a death such as Aaron’s, and the brevity and unexpected nature of time. I do not believe that death has to have a reason, so I don’t tend to ask why someone has to die. As my father said when he was facing his own death, “Why not me?” However, when a person is as young and filled with promise as Aaron was, it makes you grasp for something that you can take from the event that will honor his life. As I waited to pay my respects to his family, I took notice of the effect that Aaron’s death had on his young friends, and I remembered an eerily similar experience from my youth.

I grew up with a girl named Chrissy Cutonilli, and we were quite close when we were young. Chrissy and I shared many important milestones, being that we ran with the same group of friends throughout elementary and middle school, and because we enjoyed many of the same things when we were younger. We went our separate ways during high school, and I recognize now that it had a lot to do with where I was at the time more so than the path that Chrissy took, though I wouldn’t have admitted it then.

Like Aaron, Chrissy was a person of great character and faith, with a large group of friends and an amiable personality. She had a natural aptitude for scholastics, carrying above a 4.0 throughout high school, and she worked with great fervor and diligence on anything with which she was involved. Teachers loved her; parents loved her; and most of the student body knew her, respected her, and called her a friend – she was just that type of girl.



I didn’t know this at the time, but Chrissy was diagnosed with a tumor on her spine when she was in 9th grade. She and her family kept it quiet, and her doctors removed it without incident. Tragically, a small amount of the tumor remained undetected. When Chrissy was a freshman at UVA in 1992, still carrying a 4.0 in her classes and participating in a sorority on campus, she became sick with bronchitis that she couldn’t seem to shake. The campus clinic finally decided to do a chest x-ray and found tumors on her lungs. Further investigation showed another tumor on her brain stem, and she died later that year. She was not yet 20 years old.

At the age of 19, I did not face Chrissy’s death well, and by that I mean that I didn’t face it at all. Our families had known each other from the time we were in second grade, yet I chose to relinquish those memories in lieu of a lie that would make her death easier to deal with. I refused to approach the casket at the viewing. I convinced myself that she and I had nothing in common, that there was no practical reason for me to attend the viewing and funeral, and that it was pointless. At the funeral, rather than sitting near my former classmates, I sat toward the darkened back of the church and dug my fingernails into my arms until they broke the skin rather than cry in front of everyone (and I did need to cry, badly). I barely spoke to the people I had grown up with at the Cuttonillis' house after the funeral; I was so damned angry. When I left their house, I didn’t want to ever think about Chrissy again, because hey, we weren’t really great friends toward the end of her life, and who needed to remember some dumb girl who up and died anyway.

Well, you know how it goes: never say never. I have never forgotten Chrissy, even in those early years after her death. She’d pop into my mind at the strangest times, what I called my, “What would Chrissy do or say” moments. I remember her warmth and her charitable nature when I find myself thinking that I don’t have any more to give. I think about her off-the-charts intelligence when I’m problem solving or organizing. I think about what a fantastic friend she was to me when we were young, and how much she meant to our circle of friends in those early years when we were searching out who we were going to become. Today, I feel fortunate to be able to say, “I once had a friend named Chrissy…,” and to be able to tell other people about what a phenomenal person she was. Despite trying very hard to forget her, she’s stuck tight to my moral compass.

Chrissy was there with me on Tuesday night, just as Aaron will be there for each of the people he influenced in his short nineteen years. I imagine his friends and family calling upon his name in times of trouble or doubt, remembering what a solid person he was. Maybe they will attempt to become just a little bit better because they knew someone who lived his life trying to do the right thing and behaving with compassion and love in his heart. Chrissy and Aaron were not perfect, but they chose to act, be involved, and bring happiness into other peoples’ lives, which makes them worth even the smallest memory in my book.

As we were leaving the viewing, I ran into another former student from Aaron’s class. Unlike Aaron, she was one who had always been a bit of a spitfire in class, one who was not above gossiping and making crass comments about her classmates. You know, a person just like the rest of us. I asked her how she was handling the viewing and we talked about Aaron for a bit. Then I asked her what she was doing with her life. She is studying occupational therapy at VCU. Yeah, the kids are all right.

We’re Going to Have Good Time, Even If It Kills Us!

By A.E. Bayne




My mother is crazy, and I say that with the best possible sentiment. She does not have a mental illness; rather, her insanity comes straight from the heart. She’s the type of person who would give you her shirt, take the bullet, and build you a classic Cape Cod from the sticks and stones thrown by that bully back in third grade, if you’re still hanging onto that baggage. However, like any great super-hero, she does have her Kryptonite: Hattie Mae Rogers, her mother. Yes, my grandmother, who is loved by all who meet her, who makes the best potato salad on earth, who has never known a stranger, is my mother’s Achilles heel.

On the surface, they appear inseparable. My mother dotes on my grandmother, drives her to see doctors and to restock at the grocery store, and pays for prescriptions and medical procedures when she needs assistance. Conversely, my grandmother satisfies my mother’s need for company, which abates Mom’s fears of solitude. For my mother, she is someone to care for, someone to talk to, and someone who relies on her daily. They dance around each other with symbiotic gestures; and yet, like any two objects exerting the same electrical charge, they are bound by the laws of physics to repel one another.

Conversations between my mother and grandmother often reflect each one’s need to control any given situation. I present the following example for your consideration:

While returning from our trip to Colonial Beach today, my grandmother repeats a story about a woman named Heather who lived in Memphis when she was there and who helped her often. They worked together, and Heather was very good to her – dare I say, like a daughter. My grandmother never misses an opportunity to revisit all the kind acts that Heather bestowed upon her; yet my mother feels slighted because Grandma rarely pays her even the briefest compliment for all the things Mom tries to do for her here in Fredericksburg. My mother has asked many times why my grandmother never seems to be grateful for the things that she does for her. Grandma’s response, “Because you’re my daughter and you have to do it. Heather just wanted to do it.” So be it; we hear the story of the time when Heather bought her a cell phone in case my grandmother was to break down while driving to work, and wasn’t that the sweetest thing, and how much she missed Heather.

I am rolling my eyes to the ceiling, mouthing the words to the story as my grandmother gazes out the window in the retelling, when we hear the rotating gear of my mother’s lighter spin and the lighter fluid ignites. She doesn’t say a word, but purses her lips around a Carlton Ultra Light, pulling smoke into her lungs like a rope. We all roll down our windows and there is silence for half a minute.

“You don’t see many women smoking anymore,” my grandmother says from the backseat, as if she is stating her thesis for a much longer piece of rhetoric.

Silence again; my mother is bent forward over the steering wheel, barreling down Rt. 218. She purposefully drags the cigarette up to her berry lips, sucking the dense fog into her lungs like a spirit. We wait, surrounded by murky expectancy, while she continues to stare at the road ahead. She finally blows out the smoke long and full so that it slides around her, hugging her in a haze.

“You see more women smoking than men,” she slyly responds.

And then my grandmother is off and running, “Well, Margaret Ann, you may THINK more women smoke, but they don’t. Women don’t smoke much anymore because it’s a dirty habit. I never could smoke. I tried, but I couldn’t inhale. I wanted to, tried very hard to do it. My friends all tried to show me how, but now I’m GLAD I couldn’t do it because it’s such a disgusting habit. I’m so glad Amy never took up smoking.”



I shift a sideways glance at my mother and say through clinched teeth, “You just had to say something back. You knew what would happen, but you had to say something! You can never just let it go.”

“Well, what do you want me to do?” Mom sputters at me.

“What? What now?” Grandma is demanding from the backseat.

“Nothing, Mother! Nothing.”

“Oh, it’s something, alright! Oh-ho, it is something.”

“Look at the scenery.” My mother flicks her cigarette out the window causing tiny flashes of lit ash to bounce behind the bumper.

There is silence again, but for the whirr of the tires treading along the canopied country road.

“You know, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I should call Pearl today. She was so like a mother to me. It was so strange, and I’ve wanted to call her so many times the past few weeks,” my mother’s eyes tear up visibly. Pearl was my grandmother’s sister who passed away in April. She raised my mother for a few years when she was very young.

“I know; me too. It feels like I should talk to her,” Grandma says, and then, “Emma Jean called me to wish me Happy Birthday yesterday.”

My mother sighs, “That’s nice, Mother. That’s very nice.”

And so it went; and so it goes. Mother and daughter, twisting and untwisting knots in a desperate attempt to overcome the friction, to hold fast against the repelling forces of their genetic bond. They are two negatives that make a daily attempt to create a positive, beyond all odds.

A rather dramatic thought...

Oh ache, oh hollow ache
When I wish to feel your arms tight around me and all is well.
You are a certain kind of love, a certain kind of special,
a fine tuned instrument that my hands obsessively play.
Your lines are solidity in my relentless life,
And with sincerity that is a sweet addiction for my prismic existence
your mouth is a bow of secret pleasures.

California is Burning

By A.E. Bayne

A great, hot tongue swept through the valley on the television screen. The flat panel reflected the plate glass window opposite the plush leather couches, and in it the slightly pretentious orchids dangling lazily over the lip of a vase on the table. What was she thinking? The day had ended like any other: a stop at the grocery, she picked up the kids. Brian would be home soon. And yet, she lay draped on the couch while her children mocked one another in a far room. She heard them through a food binge induced haze.

The flames on the screen lapped massive chunks of vegetation, and sizzling spittle dropped like hellish dandelion fluff igniting eager infants. She watched it cloning its image in the window, superimposed upon the city beyond. There was fire everywhere, but she lay cold and was nothing. In fact, as she listened to Kevin call Allie a cry-baby, and heard Allie’s whiney screech in retaliation, she thought that her blood might have actually stopped in her veins as she blanketed the cool leather.

On the table lay a container of Hagaan Daz, a bag of Red Hot and Blue Chips, an orange, and a plate that had, until five minutes ago, contained leftover chicken cordon blue. She let her eyes roll over the empty packages as the fire raged behind an anchorman who was reporting from the shell of his burned out home. She should get up and throw away the evidence, before Brian got home, before the kids came out into the room. She should get up and move like a torch through the house, cleansing it of rubbish. She should.

Many days had passed since her blood had boiled over. Her anguish had seared her fellow mourners at the funeral parlor. It had been Brian’s idea. For over a year, she’d been trying to spark her creativity and move her life in the direction she’d originally planned. She fought ennui every step of the way. Brian had suggested a funeral to put to rest her old life.

They had rented out a funeral parlor in town. The funeral director balked at the idea of holding a fake funeral. He’d told Brian that it would give clients the wrong idea, that they’d think the morticians didn’t take their jobs seriously. However, when Brian offered to pay dearly and had promised to recommend their services to his own clients, the funeral director agreed on the condition that he would not play any of the traditional roles that he usually held within the funerals at his discretion. Brian explained that he would not be needed, that he and their family and friends would take care of everything.

Brian had branded the funeral into her mind. He’d prodded her to write down all the details of her old life that she wanted to change. She repeatedly told him that she didn’t want to let go of everything in her old life. There were things that she wanted to remember and reflect upon. Once Brian caught hold of an idea though, he ran with it until it was fired on the very fabric of their lives. Down to the last detail, Brian peppered her with questions. Exhausted, she answered each one. Answering was easier than arguing.

Two weekends ago, in the small front parlor of the funeral space, she and twenty five of their closest friends had joined in the strangest ceremony she’d ever attended. There in the oaken coffin in the front of the parlor lay a myriad of photographs from her life up to that point. Mixed with the photos were note cards listing her various accomplishments and foibles, written by friends and family and a few by her own hand. She watched and listened as people she’d known for years went to the podium to talk about experiences they’d had together. After each person spoke, Brian extinguished one of the candles that lined the perimeter of the coffin. When everyone in the room had spoken their peace, she rose like a slow flame and trudged to the podium. Brian took her arm and looked at her expectantly. The room was an airless tomb as the audience held their breath as one.

Weightless and dancing in their sparkling eyes, she spoke about her life. She told of the early years in Wisconsin, the memories of skating on frozen lakes and an uncle who’d made her feel filthy simply by looking at her with possession in his eyes.

She explained how she’d been named the salutatorian of her high school class, but had developed an addiction to pharmaceutical grade opiates during her summer stint at the local pharmacy before leaving for college. It had been hard to procure the pharmaceuticals on campus, so she had switched to street grade heroin and the occasional tablet of oxycontin when she could get it.

She spoke of her passion for textiles and design, how she felt like a failure for not pursuing her dreams, and how her family was both the most important and the most stressful part of her existence. She related how Brian buried her with his smothering, unremitting air of professional authority that translated to their lives at home, their sex life, their friends; they were all his.

She looked out at the crowd, breathing her smoke, brushed with the ashes of her life. What had they expected? Had they wanted her to simply breeze through her stories and leave out the scorching details? Her finishing words were cataclysmic, clearing the room of all but Brian, a petrified form on the chair directly in front of her.

“You didn’t even ask me if I wanted this,” she had said, exhausting the last flickering light in the row of candles.

Now, soaking in the guilt and rage that consumed her, she pointed the remote at the television and extinguished the bright fires that lay bare the land’s bones.

“Enough,” she said.

Sleep?