One of my biggest reasons for hesitating to move up to teach 4th grade was the realization that I’d have to clean out my classroom. (Those who know me and have seen my classroom can vouch for the legitimacy of this concern!) I’ve now spent approximately 10 hours sorting through files, stacks of books, materials, etc. I have hours to go as I haven’t even touched my storage area yet!  I’m slightly horrified by the amount of paper I’ve discarded in the recycling bin. Not to mention the material resources wasted (Oh, I’m so sorry, trees!), each paper held creative energy, thought or intention–now tossed with less and less hesitation into the trash!

While looking through some old files, I found a poem I’d written for my class years ago. (I believe I was channeling Dr. Seuss at the time.) Since cleaning time has cut into slicing time, I thought I’d share this “found” poem today. It needs a bit more tinkering, but needs must!

The Shoe-Stealing Glizard

The Shoe-Stealing Glizard is a rare one to see
He sneaks about sneakily, trying to be
as quiet as snowflakes as he creeps ’round the town
searching for footwear without making a sound.
He takes red shoes and blue ones and big ones and small.
The size doesn’t matter, not one bit at all.
He assembles them into a towering stack
Then plops each in his maw– a leathery snack.
He loves every morsel: the sole, tongue and laces
guzzling them greedily, leaving no traces.
Is your wet sneaker stinky and dripping with gunk?
To him, that’s a treat, a delicious Ker-plunk!
Into milk he will dip it and then with a slurp
He’ll gobble it up with a boisterous burp.
If you’ve looked high and low for your shoe or its mate
And they’re not to be found–it might be too late.
It could be the case, I’m most sorry to say,
that the Shoe-Stealing Glizard has headed your way.

Molly Hogan (c)2016

And then here’s a more recent treasure that I couldn’t resist sharing–this heart-warming card from a student. (Please note my fabulous earrings!) I will certainly miss teaching first grade!

In the cottage garden
early in the morning
tendrils of fragrance
weave invisible aromatic paths
The moist morning air
eddies and swirls
with the weight
of heady rosa rugosa
overlaid with a hint of peony
and whiffs of wild phlox
from the bounty of blossoms
fireworking in the shadows
across the yard
Ripe with promise
lush with scent
it brushes the earth
with the softest caress
Redolent

Oh, to capture this sweet air in a bottle
to unstopper and savor
on those sterile, dark days
in the depths of winter
when fragrance seems leached
from air that lies
brittle, hard and cold
over the frozen earth

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

For more poetry, visit Carol’s Corner!

I didn’t expect it. It was early Sunday afternoon. After a final four intense hours of work, I had just left school and my report cards were done. Finis! Complete!  With almost 48 hours to spare!  The weight was off my shoulders and I practically skipped out of the building and into my car, singing all the way. About ten minutes later, entering the grocery store, I was still slightly giddy with joy.

I walked into the produce section and a pyramid of gleaming scarlet fruit immediately caught my eye — cherries! Oh! I should get some cherries. Connor loves them. And then I remembered. Connor had moved out this weekend. I didn’t need to consider him as I shopped. I’d sent him off with some staples from our pantry just yesterday morning and now…Well, now he was no longer on my grocery list.

Oh.

In the past 2-3 months, my son has gotten (finally!) his driver’s license, graduated from college, bought a car, got a job, signed a lease for his first apartment, and moved in with his girlfriend. That’s a lot of life changes. I know they’re really about him, but I get caught up a bit in the turbulent wake.

On Sunday I stood in the grocery store and realized- Everything’s changed. I’d been expecting this for years now. Freshman year. Spring break. First summer. There had already been long stretches of time where I wasn’t shopping for him. But really, he’d still been around, part of the family planning, his preferences a staple on my grocery list, his return just a holiday or long weekend away. This was no longer true. It was a startling realization. Disconcerting.

After a few misty moments, I slowly passed the cherries. I picked up some avocados for Adeline and then saw the stacked packets of pistachios—Nope. I don’t need those.  I walked to the back of the store and passed by the deli—No ham and sliced cheese today. In the cracker aisle, I tossed in a box of lightly salted rice crackers for Lydia. We won’t need as many Ritz crackers anymore. Meandering down the juice aisle, I grabbed some cranberry juice and eyed the rainbow-colored Gatorade bottles. No need to consider which flavor to buy this week. I continued my shopping, passing cheese sticks, yogurt drinks and bags of chips, and collecting other items still necessary to our household.

Connor’s well and truly on his own now. I know this is how it should be and I’m proud of him and happy for him. But part of me is mourning. I know this is natural; I just didn’t expect it to hit me in the produce section. Another writer could probably find a rich metaphor in this grocery store moment–something about food, love, nourishment. All I know is that I checked out with a slightly emptier cart, feeling more than slightly bereft.

Through the Open Window

Through the open window
I watch him,
with his soft, tawny fur,
and long ears limned
in dawn’s light.
He hops forward,
pausing on the dew-laden lawn,
poised on his haunches.
His nose twitches,
ears flicker
once
twice
His gaze meets mine.

A recent visitor,
initially unexpected
(for rabbits, or hares,
are rarities here),
I now anticipate his arrival.
He comes early
most days,
touring the gardens
and no one else sees him,
for we are both
solitary
creatures of morning
with an affinity for soft light
and tranquility.

Today we regard each other
solemnly
for a long moment
in the flush promise
of a spring morning,
greeting the day
together
through the open window.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

To read more poetry, go to Poetry Friday Roundup at Beyond Literacy Link.

My house is bursting at the seams. Each night the sink mysteriously fills with dishes. The dishwasher runs non-stop as do the washer and dryer. Items mysteriously move from room to room and I trip over unfamiliar shoes. Paper towels and toilet paper evaporate from their rolls and there’s seldom a clean, dry towel to be found. The trash can is quietly but determinedly overflowing in the cupboard. The driveway and the lawn are parking lots for various cars (some familiar, some not) which appear and disappear through the day and night. Food vanishes at a jaw-dropping rate.

We have a houseful right now. Connor has graduated but is temporarily here with his girlfriend and their cat. My in-laws  (and their dog) came to see him graduate and are staying for a nice, long visit. (Their RV rests in our driveway parking lot.) Lydia has finished her first year of college and returned on Saturday from a two-week singing tour in Ireland and England. On Monday, Adeline returned after 5 months in England.  I haven’t had all three of them together since Christmas!  Their friends stop by to visit and add to the bubbling mix of energy. (Nobody warns you that you’ll miss your kids’ friends almost as much as you miss your kids!) So, my children are all finally at home and these spinning last-days-of-school won’t slow down enough to allow me to simply wallow in sheer enjoyment.

So, at the end of these long, busy days, I lie in bed at night and listen. Doors shut, footsteps lightly run up the stairs, a car door slams. Someone walks by, singing softly. The hum of conversations and bursts of laughter rise and fall from adjacent rooms. I hug these sounds close to me and wrap them around me like a blanket. My house is bursting at the seams and my heart is overflowing. I drift into sleep. Smiling.

I’m a “late to life” teacher. I’m pushing 50 but I’ve only been teaching for 8 years now, all at the same school. My student teaching was in 5th grade but my first job was teaching a multiage 1/2 class.  Since then I’ve looped 1st to 2nd and for the past two years I’ve taught 1st. This is relevant background because about a week ago my principal stopped by my room late in the afternoon. In a nutshell, this is what he said: “So, Molly, T is leaving next year and I wondered if you’d be interested in teaching 4th grade.” What!!!??? This was a bolt out of the blue. I had no idea T was leaving and hadn’t been looking for a change. I had been comfortably wrapping up the year while simultaneously making and refining plans for next year’s first graders.

I have a complicated relationship with first grade. Before I got my job I used to turn down first grade sub jobs. Mrs. T. stands on the blue carpet square when she talks to us about the calendar. Then I got into first grade and realized that first graders are an awful lot like puppies. They are adorable, affectionate, and messy. They chew things. They need lots of structure and supervision. They make you smile and laugh and they bound right into your heart. They have seemingly unlimited energy…until they don’t. They are super cute and ready to leap enthusiastically into everything!  They change and grow so quickly and make amazing progress over the course of a year. I love puppies. I love first graders. I’ve loved teaching first grade. But the thing is, at heart I’ve always been a bit more of a cat person.

My principal gave me a few days to consider and I wavered all weekend. What should I do? Should I switch to fourth?  Should I stay in first?
Pro: A fourth or fifth grade position would have been my dream job 8 years ago. It’s what I originally wanted to do. I know I enjoy working with kids at this level.
Con: I love first graders and my 1-2 teaching team and don’t want to leave them.
Pro: The remaining fourth grade teacher is a dynamo–collaborative and welcoming. She’s also a literacy superstar and I know I’d learn a ton from her.
Con: I’ve just stopped looping and felt like I was finally really gaining traction with the first grade curriculum. I’ve been so enjoying having the same curriculum this year. 4th grade curriculum is a world away from first and there will be a definite learning curve involved. That’s a bit daunting. Maybe more than a bit…
Con: And…and this is a big one…I’d have to clean out my classroom. Eek! I am a book hoarder and borderline supply hoarder and my classroom is loaded!  And let’s not forget that storage area.
Pro:  I often find myself regretfully putting aside material that’s just too sophisticated for first grade. I would love working with some of this material in fourth grade.
Con: I love the rewards of working with students in such a pivotal year and I so enjoy my colleagues in the K-2 wing. Also, where else can you get hugs every day on the job?
Pro: Literacy work in 4th grade sounds really exciting! The thought of in depth vocabulary work makes me swoon!
My mind whirled over the course of the long weekend. Back and forth. Pros and cons. What should I do?

After listening to my rambling thoughts and disjointed mutterings all weekend, my son cut through my mental turmoil with a simple statement, “I think you’d regret it if you didn’t try it.” And really it was just about that simple. He was right. Most of the reasons I hesitated were superficial or temporary. (But OMG, cleaning out my classroom!!!) This is my chance to push myself. I’m not a huge fan of change but I’ve been working on seeing it as opportunity. As my blog name suggests, I’ve been trying to push myself out of my comfort zone and try new things. A move to fourth grade is an opportunity to make a change within the existing boundaries of a school I already know and with the support of my colleagues. That’s a pretty comfortable change!

So, I’m looking for recommendations from all of you–and all the cosmic goodwill you can send my way as I make this change! Is there a professional book that has been invaluable to you? Do you have an amazing read aloud? I’m already planning a summer of middle grade and professional reading. I’m scared. I’m excited. I’m overwhelmed. I’m energized. Apparently I’m going to be a fourth grade teacher!

I spent a lot of time this past weekend watching the bees weave their paths through my garden. I was fascinated by the dipping and bending of the plants as the bees landed and departed. I could imagine a musical score encompassing the flight of the bees and the delicate sway and bounce of the flowers. This was all much more interesting than my bag full of work!

Perpetual motion
in the garden
Buds and blossoms,
verdant greens
dip and bob,
in a hypnotic choreography
as bumbling bees
tumble
through the flowering
Cranesbill Geranium
gather pollen,
and depart,
heavy laden,
leaving slender stalks
swaying
in sweet release

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

To read more poetry, go to Poetry Friday Roundup at the blog, Check It Out. Enjoy!

My in-laws are staying with us right now and my mother-in-law caught me unawares on my back deck yesterday afternoon. I’d love to say I was reading a novel, but I was scoring math tests, completing reading assessment cover sheets, correcting homework, etc. I had all the essentials–my iced coffee, my favorite cat nearby and (you might not be able to see this) a lit citronella spiral by my feet.  (Damn black flies!) This picture captures a perfect, authentic slice from my weekend. (Only 3 weeks left!!)

I stumble my way through poetry. I don’t know much about the mechanics or the structure of it.  I can’t talk about sonnets and couplets. Words like enjambment and spondee are foreign to me. When discussions head in that direction, I head to the periphery–keen on learning more but a bit intimidated by it all. I’m more comfortable with the wonders of word play– the delicious way that poems tumble off my tongue with assonance and alliteration and onomatopoeia. My pool of known, beloved poets is also small: Mary Oliver, Naomi Shahib Nye and Wendell Berry. Robert Frost, Shel Silverstein, Ogden Nash. Yet even as I write their names, I’m profoundly aware that I have only a superficial familiarity with their work (with the possible exception of Shel Silverstein whose much loved  Where the Sidewalk Ends brightened my childhood days).

Yet I love poetry. I love discovering new poems. I love writing them. Above all, I love how poetry encapsulates an emotion or a moment so perfectly that it seems to reveal an essential truth–to cut right to the heart of the matter. There are times I read a poem and am stopped in my tracks. I don’t necessarily understand it all nor can I articulate all of its nuances or the craft that went into its structure, but it resonates within me. I feel charged and often changed by my encounter with it. Recently I encountered such a poem by Russian poet, Osip Mandelstam, translated by Christian Wiman.

And I Was Alive by Osip Mandelstam

And I was alive in the blizzard of the blossoming pear,
Myself I stood in the storm of the bird–cherry tree.
It was all leaflife and starshower, unerring, self–shattering
    power,
And it was all aimed at me.
What is this dire delight flowering fleeing always earth?
What is being? What is truth?
Blossoms rupture and rapture the air,
All hover and hammer,
Time intensified and time intolerable, sweetness raveling rot.
It is now. It is not.

If you’re interested in reading more poetry, go on over to Reflections on the Teche where Margaret Simon is hosting this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup.

My cousin is an artist. Her paintings, often watercolors, vibrate with color and passion. Sometimes she shares her work on Facebook and I marvel at her talent. Truth be told, I’m also a bit jealous, as this kind of talent does not run in my veins.

She posted this picture not long ago with the caption: “Thinking of Grandpa Pat while using his pencils.” It turns out that her watercolor pencils were once held and used by our grandfather. She called him Grandpa Pat, I called him Poppa Pat. Either way he was ours and much loved, but clearly she knew him in a way I did not.

I did not know that Poppa Pat had art supplies.  Sure, I knew he could draw, and I always enjoyed the small hand-painted holiday postcards he sent us. I particularly remember a grinning jack o’ lantern from some long ago Halloween. I can still feel the rough, dry texture of the paint strokes on the card and see the jaunty crooked black grin. I knew Poppa Pat was a singer and a mad whistler. I knew he was a storyteller. I knew he loved to eat oatmeal with raisins for breakfast. But I didn’t know that he was the kind of person who had art supplies, the kind of person who knew what crayon d’ache pencils were. I’m a bit jealous that my cousin knew this part of my grandfather and I didn’t–and saddened that I didn’t pay more attention.

It follows that I did not know that our grandfather had shared his art supplies with my cousin. When I saw her photo, I was touched that his supplies were still being used –that they were treasured.  “He gave me all of his art supplies one of the last times I saw him,” she wrote, “ I have his oil paints (mostly dried up but I’m keeping them), his pastels, linoleum cutting tools, and his crayon d’ache pencils (watercolor pencils). He was so excited to share them with me.” What did my grandfather really think and feel when he handed those cherished supplies to my cousin? A delight in a shared passion? A recognition that he could no longer use these tools? A sorrow for the passing of time? A pride in his granddaughter’s talent?  There must have been an element of bitter along with the sweet. I know, though, that he would be thrilled that his crayon d’ache pencils, held in his granddaughter’s hands, were still actively creating, linking the two of them through time and the creative process.

About two weeks ago, a picture of a painting popped up in my Facebook feed with the caption: “This little one is from my cousin’s photo in Acadia (National Park), Maine.” My cousin had painted a watercolor, inspired by a photograph I’d recently shared.

Here is the original photo I shared on Facebook:

Here is her painting:

And I wondered. Did she use my grandfather’s watercolor pencils to create this? I’d like to think so. I could ask her and find out, but I’d rather not. I’d rather simply believe she did. Either way, to me this painting is a circle– from Poppa Pat to my cousin to me. It feels rich and rewarding and right.

After a quick Facebook exchange to work out details, the watercolor is on its way to my home. Here, like my grandfather’s art supplies, it will be treasured. There is sweet solace in this painting, this artistic legacy, that connects us through the years.