Becoming an educator seemed right for me, though it wasn’t what I really wanted then. Now it’s a different story. I’m very happy to be a teacher. Helping people learn makes me a better person. I love the education profession.
My choice of profession would’ve been anything else. Alas, in my generation, college educated women became a nurse or a teacher. Blood made me squimish, so teaching became my only alternative.
My teaching experiences varied in student age, subject, and locale. Some locations happened by choice. Others, to follow husband’s job transfers.
Both sides of my family have education as their profession. Dad’s family had many educators. A few cousins on Mom’s family teach or are employed in education. It’s a family tradition.
Helping. That’s the thrill of education. Education, teaching, and helping fit hand-in-hand. Knowing how to help others discover what I know excites me. I love teaching others to learn a subject that fascinates me.
Education’s appeal goes way beyond me loving to help or teach something to someone. It transcends space, time, and logic.
Education facilitates learning, or the acquisition of knowledge, skills, values, beliefs, and habits. Educational methods include storytelling, discussion, teaching, training, and directed research.Wikipedia
Education is an important part of our beings. It helps us live with happiness and prosperity by empowering our minds to discover excellent ideas and thoughts. The personal, social, and economic development of our nation depends on educating young people.
Teachers of our young are underpaid. As former President of a local Education Association, I became painfully aware of how political that process is. Not only political, but seemingly impossible. Perhaps it’s improved in recent years. Hope reigns supreme!
There’ll always be the element of society that chooses to exploit givers. Educators are givers. They give themselves, their resources, sometimes it seems their very souls to help children entrusted to their care.
Teaching, a noble calling, is as old as time itself. Some people always want to help others learn. Educators need to be paid more.Teachers’ unions helped bridge the monetary gap. That’s a good thing.
Teaching’s a wonderful profession. It’s highly regarded by many. Though the money game has improved, though teachers remain underpaid. Their worth to society, difficult to measure accurately, improves as teaching’s structure becomes more like a business.
Ghost Writing Niche
Helping someone else tell their story and writing it for them honors the tradition of story telling. I love telling stories. True stories. Make-believe stories. Proving A Point stories. I’m privileged if another chose me to tell their life story to a waiting world.
Story telling comes naturally to me from my Irish heritage. Pap Kearney (rhymes with Carney) came with his family from County Cork, Ireland. My dad, of German descent, told many stories, many funny ones. People of all nationalities like telling stories.
Stories provide substance. Points are illustrated by stories. Story components offer insight into the development of character. Life details interest readers during a well-told story.
Entertainment provided by stories in books, television, or a movie captures our imaginations, keeps us in suspense, or lulls us to sleep. That’s not from boredom.When time for sleep arrives, yet doesn’t happen, reading stories helps relaxation.
Stories captivate, resonate, enervate. We believe stories even if we know they’re only fairy tales. Maybe everyone doesn’t. Enough do so a well-told story sells many copies.
Helping someone tell their story would be a privilege for me. Teaching made me aware some need help telling their story through writing it down. That help might be because they need time for other business, their English skills lack competency, or some other reason.
My English skills make me a perfect candidate to help tell your story to the world. All that’s necessary for you to do is to reach out, contact me. We’ll talk about your story.
When comfortable with each other’s style, you’ll show me photos, remembrances, or other paraphernalia to include. Then, I’ll make an outline and begin writing. You’ll always be kept informed. Your story, your decision.
Who needs it and why do they need it?
People need healthcare at all stages of their lives. Getting born, giving birth, sickness, operations, end-of-life. Any time a person has an illness or circumstance whenever they’re unable to care for themselves, they need healthcare.
I’ve given and received much healthcare throughout my life. That’s the reason for choosing healthcare. Now deceased, my parents loved and cared for their only child through health struggles.
That’s not unusual. That’s what parents do. Parents care for their children.They have worldwide for centuries. Halfway through my seventeen year, my dear parents got shocking new
“There’s no kind way to say this. Your spinal tap fluid we took two weeks ago came back from Pittsburgh Diagnostic Lab.”
He hesitated for a few seconds. Then in his kind doctor voice said,
“You have Multiple Sclerosis.”
Dr. Thomas Dugan, Nueropsychologist, looked at me as he spoke that sweltering mid-July day in Johnstown, Pennsylvania.
The keystone state of Pennsylvania has two seasons, some say in jest; Winter and the Fourth of July. Summer’s heat sometimes lingers for a few days or weeks. That day turned out hotter for us than temperature.
Doctor Dugan looked serious, so it wasn’t a joke as his face registered concern. None of us had ever heard of Multiple Sclerosis.
Mother started crying anyway.
Daddy looked stoic.
My thoughts wandered.
Not too much though. Recent high school graduate emotions lingered making me a happy camper. Thoughts of college in a month raced through my mind. Clothes to choose and pack.
Who would be there?
Making new friends.
Different people fascinated me.
Would classes be difficult?
On my own.
Away from home.
Now, a strange doctor told me an incurable disease ravaged my body. He also said that having children wasn’t a good idea. It could be harmful to me.
Who cared or even thought about having children? Or even getting married? In the late fifties, marriage BEFORE children most people thought proper.
“They must know something about whatever Dr. Dugan said.
What was it? Multiple something that started with an S.”
In a few months, I would discover the awful truth of Multiple Sclerosis or MS. Stress of final exams made MS rear its ugly head. I relapsed into numbness, paralysis, or both.
A sharp stabbing pain behind usually my left ear feels like something inside my head attacks with a sharp knife. My primary care doctor prescribed an 800 mg tablet every twelve hours. Pain stops.
But it returns. Then leaves as quickly as it began.
Multiple Sclerosis symptoms go from almost nothing to full paralysis with total numbness. Mine usually limited themselves to numbness and/or paralysis in one or several body parts.
Always a surprise.
Never a pleasure.
Dr. Dugan prescribed a five milligram tablet of nicotinic acid with eight ounces of water after every meal. That flushes blood vessels. Disease Modifying Drugs weren’t on the market in 1958.
Total rest for two weeks taking nicotinic acid after each meal. Numbness and/or paralysis all gone. I returned to college. Just one week of work to make up because of the week between semesters.
Mother’s care came when she reached a relatively young sixty-four. Lung cancer developed in an amazing woman who never smoked a cigarette in her life. I moved home to help with her care. She saw how emotionally difficult a task I found it.
My being there to care for Mom enabled Dad to have a day or few hours break from care taking. He freely admitted to me that my relief helped him a lot. I felt happy to do that for him.
I loved being with Mom. However, seeing her debilitating condition sometimes made me cry. Mom soothed me. Again. Over forty, yet still her baby.
Fortunately, I’d enrolled in a counseling class at a nearby college. Graduate students practiced grief counseling. The woman taught me breathing techniques to help control those crying urges.
As a trained singer, slow controlled diaphragmatic breathing came easily to me.These breathing strategies helped me in public. However, when Mother and I were alone together, my crying jags often got hold of me.
My MS research and talking with others acquainted with MS told me how it often controls emotions. My soft-heart nature causes me to cry at the drop-of-a-hat.
My breath catches when seeing something utterly beautiful, grand beyond belief, a distressed animal or person. My throat tightens. Tears flow freely.
Dad remarried within the year after Mother died. It seemed much too soon to me. He assured me that he spent more than a year knowing that Mother would die. She wanted him to find someone.
And he did.
He discovered a former college classmate. He had dated Jeannie’s roommate. They married. Five years later, she got sick and died.
Daddy hired a live-in housekeeper who also managed his medicine, cooked, cleaned, washed clothes. She had time off each week and vacations.
My fondest memory the summer she and family took a two week vacation. We flew from Arizona to Florida to help him. I loved helping Daddy, read to him, talked to him, brought his meals that my husband prepared. I enjoyed being “Daddy’s girl” once more.
His gentle, loving, giving nature with buoyant charm endeared him to many. One of the fabulous good fortunes of my life that I called him Daddy. Caring for him’s a pleasure I’ll remember for my lifetime.
Other times, I gave healthcare to folks I didn’t know. Interim jobs during school vacations saw me working for a Home Health Agency. This humbling experience taught me there’s no exemption from needing healthcare.
We WILL ALL need healthcare sometime during our lives. Be prepared to accept it graciously and gracefully.
Education | Ghostwriting | Healthcare |
Three Niches To Which I Am Most Closely Associated. Which One will Prevail?
Continuous ongoing life work in
English, Music, and Reading.
Masterful storyteller. Empathetic writer.
Much received. More given to others.
I can write what you need.
Contact me. Let’s chat.