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SOLC Day 18: I may be losing it #truestory

March 2026 SOLC–Day 18
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

I’ve promised myself that I’m not going to write any more complaining posts about my school year. (Though I do think the tone sneaks through time and again…sorry!) So, Reader Beware! This one feels complaint-adjacent, but it’s what I’ve got this morning. #Truestory

I sit down at the table and pull my lunch out of my bag. First, a Tupperware dish filled with chopped fruit, next the small container of granola, and finally, a vanilla Greek yogurt. This is my work-day lunch every day. Seriously, I’ve been eating this for 113 days now. (Or 114? I’ve lost track!) Anyway, it’s healthy and easy. There’s no need to think about it in advance or to take a time-wasting trip to the microwave for any reheating. I appreciate the efficiency of it. 

I grasp the foil tab and pull the lid off the yogurt, watching the thick white surface appear. 

But wait…that looks a little off. 

Instead of the smooth creamy  surface I expected, this one looks sort of…lumpy? Curdled, maybe? (Can yogurt even be curdled? Isn’t it maybe already curdled? Where does Greek yogurt come from anyway? File that thought under “Things I think I used to know…” )

I lean closer and take a deep sniff. It smells fine.

I give it another concerned glance. It definitely looks different than usual.  

I check the date, wondering if somehow I’ve pulled a random yogurt from the dead zone at the back of the fridge.. April 16, 2026

Hmmmm… so it should be okay. I guess I’ll know it’s bad if it tastes funny. 

I dump the yogurt on my fruit and stir it in, then top the mixture with a generous sprinkle of granola. As I begin to tentatively dip my spoon in for a trial taste, I pause, my motion arrested by a sudden (somewhat unhinged?) thought:

Oh! If it’s off, you can get a mild case of food poisoning and not be able to come to school tomorrow!

I dig my spoon in and take a big bite. 

It tastes fine. 

Totally normal.

I’m not sure if I’m happy about that or a bit disappointed. 

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SOLC Day 17: Foggy Commute

March 2026 SOLC–Day 17
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

I love reading Kim’s slices every morning. She lives on the west coast and thus posts after my early-to-bed bedtime. Her posts are always beautifully written and filled with all sorts of nature and book love, and classroom inspiration. Usually I read them after I’ve already sliced for the day, but this morning I was scraping the barrel for something to write, so I detoured.

This year I’ve found loads of ideas for slices, but then find myself not wanting to write about most of them. Too negative…too boring…too hard… I guess I’m perennially in search of the Goldilocks slice idea, the one that’s just right. Kim’s post this morning was about her foggy walk on the beach (here) . I’ve already written about a foggy visit to the marsh this month, but her post reminded me that I’d had a lovely fog-bound commute to work earlier this month that I hadn’t written about. For some reason Kim’s slice and thinking about the fog also reminded me of the beginning of “Mending Wall” by Robert Frost–“Something there is that doesn’t love a wall…” So, with a twist, that’s where I began.

Foggy Commute

Something there is within me that loves the fog
how it presses gently in from all sides
and ground oft-trod or traveled
leans into mystery
how trees emerge along the horizon
their branches entwined with low clouds
then fade and disappear
and even farmyard clutter
and early spring muck
take on a hue of beautiful
with edges smooth and indistinct
I travel over a bridge
and the river beneath
is but a memory

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SOLC Day 16: Currently…

March 2026 SOLC–Day 16
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

I’m turning to a tried and true post format for this morning. Somehow the past few days, as full as they’ve been, have left me scrambling for what to write!

Currently, the sun is still sleeping. The birds are still sleeping. I’m drinking my coffee while the windows reflect my face back at me. I’m wondering why it is that I wake naturally at 3:30 or 4:00 am on weekend mornings, but on schooldays need to be detonated from sleep by my 4:30 am alarm. There is something inherently unfair about this.

Currently, my shoulders are taut and tense near my ears. I consciously relax them. Down. Down. Down.

Currently, I have just realized that taut and taught are homophones. This intrigues me. Can I do something with this in a poem? It also does not surprise me and feels sadly apt. Speaking of which…

Currently, I’m worrying about the coming day, about all the work I did not do this weekend. I’m yearning to be back in yesterday. To be holding my grandson in my arms. My hand tucked around his soft head. Cherishing. Protecting. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the soft, warm weight of his sleeping body against my shoulder…

Currently, this happy reverie is interrupted by the cat repetitively scratching at the door. She wants out. Again. If I ignore her, she’ll move into the next phase which consists of knocking things off the desk, off the windowsill, etc. It occurs to me that I’m much better trained than she is. It also occurs to me that I don’t like cats quite as much as I used to.

Currently, the wall clock issues a steady tick-tick-tick from where it hangs on the kitchen wall. It reminds me this is no leisurely morning. I’m already so behind. I halt my shoulders in their ascent and consciously relax them downward. Again. I know this won’t be the last time.

Currently, I decide enough is enough. This is going to be my slice for today and it’s time to publish it. I’m feeling a bit panicked about using this format so early in the month. What will be on hand when I dive into conference week? Or even this week as I tackle final grading and writing report card comments and whatever other drama heads my way?

Currently…
my shoulders are taut and tense near my ears. I consciously relax them. Down. Down. Down.

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SOLC Day 15: Wordle Fun

March 2026 SOLC–Day 15
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

I am a creature of habit and routine. I wake up, feed the cats, start my coffee and drink my orange juice while it brews. Soon, I’m sitting at my desk and writing. Every morning.

Eventually I yield to temptation and begin one of my favorite daily routines: playing NYT puzzle games. I always play Wordle first (I’m on a 214 day streak which adds a bit of stress to the fun!) and then share the results with two of my sisters. After that I’m onto Connections and then Spelling Bee, and now Crossplay, too. Wordle is my hands down favorite though. 

Although I am a creature of habit and routine, I begin with a different word each day. I choose any word that catches my fancy. Maybe it matches the mood. Maybe it matches the weather. Often it just pops into my head. I do try to choose a word that has two vowels and no repeated consonants. I love how the letters and letter combinations lead you to a solution. Yesterday, I started with the word “waist”, for no particular reason. Here were my guesses: 

Wordle guesses: waist, dream, alone, ankle

If you read my blog regularly, you know that after playing Wordle, I love to take all my gathered Wordle guesses and create a poem from them. I’ve shared many, many, many of these before. 

Here’s my untitled, kind of weird poem from today’s guesses:

The last of the sand
trickles through the waist
of the hourglass
My dream shifts toward waking
and I’m alone on the beach
the waves licking
at my ankles

If you’re a Wordle fan, I encourage you to give this a try.  It’s a lot of fun! 

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SOLC Day 14 and PF: Chin Hair

March 2026 SOLC–Day 14
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

I stepped toward the bathroom sink to wash my hands, glancing into the mirror.

Wait! What was that!?

I stopped in my tracks. Then I stepped closer to the mirror, tilting my head from side to side, peering closely.

Ack! Sure enough! There it was! Planted on my chin like some sort of renegade celebratory flag. A long thin chin hair!!! How had this one escaped my notice? How long had it been growing? Why had no one mentioned it!?

I grasped the offensive invader between my finger tips, and tugged. I felt a vicious satisfaction at the small pinch of pain as it yielded the field. Victory!

Just yesterday I’d commented on Amy’s blog (Writing With Abandon) that I could relate to her comment about chin hairs. I’d added that I’d recently written in my notebook, “I wish I had the tenacity of chin hair.” Because really, what is as tenacious as chin hair?

I remember a friend telling me quite a long time ago, “Once you hit 35, you’ll start growing hairs in all sorts of unusual places.”

I remember scoffing at the idea. Until I didn’t.

Now, I religiously check my chin each morning, searching out these villanous strands of keratin and removing them with grim satisfaction.

Thinking of all of this reminded me of a poem I wrote long ago, and I thought I’d resurrect it again–kind of like those chin hairs keep resurrecting! When I went searching for it, I found another one that I’d totally forgotten about. Who knew I was so inspired by chin hair? I’m sharing both because, clearly chin hair is worth writing about! lol


One of life’s pressing questions…

Who is more persistent:
The thick, black hair
reappearing
firmly rooted 
in the softening skin
on the left side of my chin
or I 
who wield
the tweezers
victoriously
again and again?

©Molly Hogan

The Battle

There once was a hair on my chin
undetected when first it grew in
I noticed it there
Adrift in the air
And plucked it with shame and chagrin.

I’ve heard in some far-away places
women cherish the hair on their faces
But I can’t sport a ‘stache
with elan or panache
I vow to remove any traces.

Another one grew on my cheek.
(It happened in less than a week!)
I pulled that one too
without great ado
But with a full bellicose shriek.

Each day my reflection as mirrored
Shows renegade hairs have appeared
My expression is grim
As I tweeze and I trim
Not resigned to displaying a beard.

My tweezers flash bright through the air
Extracting each invading hair
There is not a thing cute
’bout my face so hirsute
I battle with growing despair.

I continue the gods to implore
to vanquish these whiskers galore
They’re more apt to dispatch
A peach-fuzzy soul patch
I win battles but never the war.

Molly Hogan

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Linda Baie at  Teacher Dance.

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SOLC Day 13: Baking

March 2026 SOLC–Day 13
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

Outside, the day is drawing to a close, shadows deepening, and the sun sinking slowly behind the trees. Inside, I pull the ingredients from the fridge and cupboard, and set them on the kitchen island. Butter, sugar, salt, flour, cinnamon, baking soda, baking powder, eggs, sour cream, chocolate. I set the oven to preheat and prepare a pan. Pulling the measuring spoons and cups from the drawer, I feel the day settle. The ever-present worries and stresses fade into the background.

Baking comforts me and connects me.

When I bake, I remember my mom and grandmother. I remember lavish baking sessions with childhood friends. I remember the bright sprinkle and sugar crystal abundance of holiday baking with my children. I think back to those years of early baking hours when I baked from home for a restaurant, and I remember the way-too-early-to-be-up pitter patter of little feet and my middle child, all sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired, joining me in the kitchen. I smile now, misty-eyed, remembering how she would climb on the step stool my husband made for her and contentedly watch me work. All these memories and more swirl about me.

I dump butter and sugar into the bowl of the mixer and turn it on. Its motor starts with a satisfying whirr. I watch the blade rotate and the two ingredients cream into a homogeneous mixture. I add the egg yolks and vanilla, and the batter turns to a deep yellow, testament to the gift of “home-grown” eggs from a friend.

I whisk dry ingredients together, sifting the clumps from the baking soda. Then I alternatively mix that and heaping spoonfuls of sour cream into the mixture. Next, I whip the egg whites to stiff peaks, small mountains of foam, and then fold them gently into the batter. I layer half the batter in the prepared pan then top it with clouds of cinnamon sugar and generous handfuls of chocolate chips. I repeat the process, then place the pan in the oven. After setting the timer, I clean up. There’s satisfaction here as well. Simple steps to create order from chaos.

Soon the air is rich with the scent of chocolate and cinnamon. My mind still lingers with memories.

Tonight, making this new-to-me coffee cake grounds me. When I bake I feel competent and capable. Even when working with a new recipe, I know I can bake. I have decades of experience. I speak the language, and my hands know what to do, moving smoothly and deftly. There is little ambiguity to baking, not too much decision making, but still, there’s room for improvisation. I know there’s science behind it all. I could research and learn about that, and I’d probably be a better baker for it. But I prefer to let the sheen of magic linger.

Tomorrow, I’ll bring this cake to school to share with colleagues at our Lattes and Lit group. We meet monthly to essentially buzz about books. There’s no required reading or assigned book. We just share what we’ve been enjoying, often bringing the books with us to loan out. I usually bring something I’ve baked, too. Making it is a gift to myself and sharing it is a gift to them.

Baking comforts me and connects me.

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SOLC Day 12 Tongue Twister Poem

March 2026 SOLC–Day 12
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

I’ve been wanting to play more, to have a little more fun when I was writing. I’ve wanted to embrace the silly and surprising, and maybe work on creating more poems for kids. The other day I read something that led me to another site, where I clicked on a link and read something else, that made me do a google search that led me to yet another site, where I clicked another link and then eventually, somehow or other, I wound up at Kenn Nesbitt’s website. I think that was where I was meant to be all along.

What a treasure of a site this is! Kenn has all sorts of wonderful things on offer and after poking around a bit, I ended up reading a lesson on writing tongue twister poems. He suggested, “…using lots of words with “b” and “g” sounds. “You might write a poem about someone named “Gabby” who bought a “beagle” that “begged” for “bagels.” I stole the bagel idea and ran with it:

Bobby bought a bag of bagels
at the nearby bagel store
built a tower on his table
bagels bobbled, hit the floor

Bobby’s bungled bagel building
stopped his gobbling more and more
Bagels wiggled, bagels wobbled–
bagels boogied out the door

It’s certainly not perfect, but it was fun!

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SOLC Day 11: Sensory Walk

March 2026 SOLC–Day 11
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

Monday was a long day. That night before going to bed, I moaned to my husband, “I don’t want to stay after school for Writing Club tomorrow. It’s supposed to be beautiful! I want to come home and go for a walk.”

Tuesday morning dawned, already leaning toward warm. The forecast was for blue skies, sunshine and temps in the 60s, but it was stormy weather in my classroom. All. Day. Long. The last thing I wanted to do was extend my day at school after dismissal. I yearned to go home, to abandon ship and seek shelter from the turbulence. Not an option. 

So, when my crew of writers arrived after school, I did the next best thing. I diverted our course. I ditched my planned prompt and announced that we were going to take a sensory walk. My small group was enthusiastic. They are Mainers, after all, and know to make hay while the sun shines. In other words, if it’s warm and sunny in March, get outside and enjoy it! It won’t last!

So we did.

We stepped out of the building, exclaiming at the warmth, shedding layers of sweaters and sweatshirts and, in my case, a little stress. Our attention was immediately captured by a lone bee hovering over the sidewalk. What was it doing out and about? We ambled along, stopping to listen, to smell, to touch, to see. Sharing our observations. Enjoying the beauty of the day together.

The kids convinced me to head out into the woods, despite the slushy snow and my inadequate footwear. One of them advised, “If the back of your shoe is wider than the front, put that part down first and then put the front down slowly. Your foot won’t get as wet.”  This worked surprisingly well. 

Walking forward into the path, we marveled as the temperature dipped in the shade, refrigerated by the shade and the deeper piles of snow. We stopped in a small clearing, surrounded by towering trees. 

“I smell pine!” A exclaimed. 

I took a deep breath of air, then moved a few steps forward and did so again. “Oh! I do, too!” I enthused, as a hint of balsam reached me. We all jotted. 

“Cars!” several exclaimed at once, then scribbled again in their notebooks.

After the traffic sounds ebbed, we stood a bit longer. 

“It’s a shame there’s no breeze. Then we could hear trees moving,” I commented.

A moment later, there was a soft, rustling noise. Excited, I turned and saw A. grasping a low branch of pine, swishing it back and forth.

We all laughed. 

“Thanks, A! That was helpful!”

We wandered a bit further along the trail.

“Deer poop!” exclaimed L in delight, running ahead. She’s a writer whose writing tends toward comics, dark humor and inevitably, poop. This was treasure indeed!

“Well, don’t taste it!” someone commented dryly.

Nearby we found deer tracks. We looked more closely and found several more, pausing to imagine the deer walking in this space before us.

“I’m watching out for lady slippers,” C. commented, as we moved on. “I don’t want to step on any!” 

I eyed the snow cover around us. That felt a bit overoptimistic, but commendable, nonetheless. 

The kids walked ahead of me, leading the way out of the woods.

As we moved back into the sun, their faces turned instinctively to the sun, like seedlings. Heliotropism in action. We stood still and soaked it in.

“I hear a crow!” C. whispered. 

“I see a cattail by the pond, and I can still smell the pine,” A added. 

“I feel a breeze on my skin!” L. declared.

I feel better. I thought.

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SOLC Day 10: Wood Stove

March 2026 SOLC–Day 10
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

While many of you may be cranking open the windows, donning short sleeves or tank tops, and bearing your ankles or even (gasp!) legs to the air, I’m still restoking my wood stove every morning. Yup. It’s almost springtime in Maine. 

This morning as I squat and feed logs into the wood stove, it occurs to me that I won’t be doing this for that much longer. Daylight savings has arrived and coincidentally, the past several mornings have been  warmer. It was even 43˚F on Sunday morning, which is quite warm by March in Maine standards. (I’m willfully ignoring the forecast which has inches of snow arriving overnight on Saturday and highs below freezing again next week.)

I love our wood stove. I could write an ode to it. (Has anyone ever written an ode to a wood stove? I jot that question down in my notebook to check out later.)  Having a back up source of heat is essential in Maine, where winter storms can knock out power for days on end. While I appreciate the dependability, it’s not what I love most about our stove. Our wood stove not only provides heat, but also sets a tone of pure comfort. It offers an invitation to settle in and relax. Its cheerful orange glow on dark winter mornings is a faithful companion, and its steady tick accompanies the scratch of my pen in my notebook. There’s a generosity to its radiating heat against my back.  

Wasn’t it Benjamin Franklin who invented the wood stove? I wonder idly. I google it and confirm that random thought. Apparently Franklin was urged to take out a patent for his design. He refused to do so, and I further discover that he didn’t patent any of his many inventions. Then I read an accompanying quote from his autobiography: “…that as we enjoy great advantages from the inventions of others, we should be glad of an opportunity to serve others by any invention of ours, and this we should do freely and generously.” 

Wow. Now that’s a refreshing stance.

Maybe I should write an ode to Franklin!

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SOLC Day 9: A gift of a day

March 2026 SOLC–Day 9
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

Your starting phrase is “The sky seemed a little bit…”

    The sky seemed a little bit like an invitation. The clouds gathered in streaks behind our overgrown apple tree. There were patches of blue and grey and a mixture of patterns.  I felt the tug to wander outside. To see more. I put on my boots and headed out, phone in hand.

    Avoiding the remnants of ice on the brick pathway, I walk through the snow-piled garden and onto the driveway. My feet make sloppy prints in the muddy gravel. I look up at the sky again, intrigued by the pebbled texture of the clouds. Click. Click. 

    I consider my best vantage and walk further down the driveway to line up a different shot. Click. Click. Sometimes I forget to just notice what’s around me instead of taking pictures. I deliberately lower my phone and turn a full circle in the driveway, eyes on the sky. Even as I watch, the grey clouds were parting to highlight blue skies.

    It’s warm today. 60˚F. A gift as surely as the skies are. Both are something to savor.  

    A little while later we walk on the loop through town for the first time in months. Usually I resent the lost hour of sleep/work/whatever from Daylight Savings so much that it obscures the benefits. Perhaps it’s the unexpected warmth of today, but I’m feeling positive. It will be light enough for afternoon walks now. Things are shifting.

    Downtown, we step onto the bridge to look out over the river. A small flock of mergansers hugs the edge of ice. The water is opening up again. There’s a feeling of change in the air.

    The shift toward spring is evident in the glowing warmth of the sun, the changing shadows, the water rushing along the edge of the street and waterfalling into the gutter. 

    “Listen to the water rushing,” I comment to Kurt. “It’s such a spring sound!”

    “It’s not spring,” he says, channeling Eyeore. “It’s not spring for twelve more days.”

    I might have rolled my eyes. 

    “Well, you’re welcome to keep thinking it’s winter, but I’m going to be happy thinking it’s spring,” I comment. 

    We continue along companionably, chatting about this and that. Enjoying stretching our legs and the glorious warmth. Every now and then I snap another photo, loving the interplay of clouds in the sky, the shadows, the changing light.

    At the bottom of our driveway, Kurt turns to head home. 

    “I’m going to walk a little bit more,” I announce, not ready to call an end to enjoying the warmth and the last minutes of weekend freedom before the onset of a work week. 

    “Ok,” he says, and we move off in different directions.

    Farther down the road, I pause at a field, admiring the snow covered angles, the line of trees, the expanse of sky, the rich layered colors in the clouds. Far overhead I catch sight of something soaring. Broad wing strokes rise and fall against a canvas of clouds. Is it an eagle? 

    I watch for a few minutes, enjoying its movement against the sky, imagining that its enjoying the spring-like day as much as I am. From this far it’s hard to tell, but then the bird flies slightly closer and turns, revealing that telltale white tail. Yes! It is an eagle.

    Another gift. I hold it close and walk on.