Image used by permission from Mike Benard’s Frog Call website

There’s something magical about the song of the spring peepers. When I hear them, I know that after a long winter, spring is arriving. Usually we first hear them when we’re driving on a chilly spring evening. We’ll still have the heat on in the car but we’ll roll the windows down. “There they are!” we’ll call as we hear them singing. (I even call out if I’m alone in the car. A joyous reflex–“Oh!  Listen to the peepers!”) We speed by their conversations in our car, shivering in the chilly breeze, eavesdropping on  a few highlights from a variety of vocal communities. You can’t help but smile when you hear the peepers.

Maine poet, Carl Little, also enjoys the wonders of spring peepers. This is the end of his poem Zones of Peeper. I love the image of those tiny frogs flinging their music about with such abandon and I know firsthand about the joy their song inspires.

Zones of Peeper, Carl Little

...
not synthesized but a perfect

cacophony of the higher ranges,
tiny frogs doing their spring thing,
flinging music into dank milieu
of pond edge and marsh, inspiring

a certain joy in our recap of the evening
as if every fault could be forgiven
when you consider the rest of the world
wild and wet and flipping out.

One of my first graders also knows the value of specific language and the wonder of the peepers. Here is her recent first draft of a poem, prior to working with line breaks:

What a wonderful final line:” The peepers sing a lullaby to the fish.”

Spring peepers–hope, inspiration, and sheer poetry!

Pop over to Violet Nesdoly’s blog for more poetry today. Thanks for hosting Poetry Friday Roundup, Violet!

The secretary at work attaches quotes to our Morning News e-mails. When I read this one, I immediately thought–that’s what writing does! It slows me down and makes me pay attention. I don’t have to wait for an event to become a memory–Writing helps me to recognize the value in a moment.

NPR recently broadcast a program about how handwriting your notes helps you to learn better. Because you can’t write down everything, you’re forced to synthesize as you take notes and thus you organize the information more meaningfully in your brain. Or something like that. It occurs to me that whether you’re handwriting or typing, writing makes you do the same thing. You have to choose which elements to share, which to highlight and which to omit. You can’t write about every moment of your day, so you sift through and find the more meaningful ones. And sometimes if you don’t the time to write, you might not notice the meaning was there at all.

I wasn’t sure what I would write about today. Or if I would write. I was in a bit of a mood yesterday–one of those moods that’s hard to shake, not easy to pin down, but casts a long shadow. Usually I try to whip up a rough draft for Tuesday’s slice on Monday night. Then I fine tune and post in the morning. I’d had a wonderful poetry celebration in my class yesterday and my students are truly jazzed about poetry. I knew I could write about that. I could even share some of their poetry. But I was in a mood.

I got home last night a bit early after racing around in a downpour, running errands. I had a raging headache. At 6:15 I got into bed. Yes, 6:15. I was asleep before 7:00. When I woke up at about 1:30 am, my mind started racing about, touching on all the things undone or half done or even poorly done. Apparently the mood still lurked. Already, I could sense the flavor of the day. After tossing and turning for a bit, I elected to get up. Perhaps I could get some work done and then tuck in a two hour nap a bit later in the morning.

I puttered around a bit, making coffee, changing over the laundry and finally sat down at my computer. I opened up my e-mail and noticed a note from a parent who had attended yesterday’s celebration. Oh, I thought, how nice, he’s probably written to say that he enjoyed the poetry celebration yesterday. I clicked and read. As it turns out, he was, but there was so much more.

I’m struck by the power of language–both poetic and everyday–to unite, to build, to celebrate.  So often in today’s world, language is used to denigrate, to destroy. But this parent celebrated the gift of language with his family and then again, through his letter, with me. He truly recognizes the power of words and poetry, but I wonder if he realizes how far the ripples will carry from his e-mail. How I will carry both these words and my image of his family with me. How they will remind me that our work as teachers may bear fruit at unexpected times, many unknown to us. I will carry his words with me, not just today, but on other days. And perhaps on one of those days when a mood lingers and taints, his words will drift back and shift that mood. It certainly has today.

I started vacation a bit tentatively. This was the first time I would have vacation and an empty house since becoming an empty nester. Most of the past vacations were holidays when the kids came home for break and then in February we traveled for the week. Though I was nervous heading in, I was looking forward to the down time and…the verdict is in…

I LOVED it!

I spent the week enjoying lazy mornings, long hikes, gardening, reading, writing, eating out, and generally luxuriating in a fluid, flexible schedule. It was utterly delightful. We capped it off with two days at Acadia National Park, surely one of the most beautiful spots on earth, and dinner with two of our three children at University of Maine. By Sunday I was refreshed and relatively ready to return to school on Monday morning.

These two conversations from early Monday morning brought back many memories, reinforced the upsides to vacationing and traveling without young children, and engaged my sympathies for the parents involved.

“How was your trip to Pennsylvania?” I asked a student.
“Mrs. Hogan! We drove for like 12 hours!”
“Wow! That’s a long drive.”
“Yeah, and I had to stop like 8 times to go to the bathroom,” he said.

Another student bounced up to me first thing, announcing “I got stitches over vacation.”
“You did?” I exclaimed. “What happened?”
“I cut my foot.”
“Where were you?” I asked, knowing her family had planned to travel for part of the break.
“At the hotel,” she said.
“Well, where was the hotel?”
“Oh, it was in Washington, D.C. It happened on the first day of vacation and I had to go to the emergency room.”
“Oh, no,” I said, “What an awful way to start your vacation!”
“Yeah,” she agreed, but then added, “But it’s a great small moment story!”

And then, apropos to nothing really, I just needed to share this–the view outside my classroom today:

Walking along a trail the other evening, we saw this plaque, attached to a boulder adjacent to a picturesque brook. The phrase “Trickling down from the Old Ham Farm” played over and over in my mind, sparking thoughts not only about the brook, but also about the Ham family line and about the intertwined history of brook and family.

Trickling Down

Everett and Vivian’s
old homestead remains,
populated with their progeny,
a landmark imprinted
in the county’s
geographic lexicon.
“Turn right just past the Old Ham Farm,”
the locals might say.

Ham’s Brook
still trickles down
from the farm on the hill,
swirls into the Sabbatus River
and ripples in the rapids,
rushing over and around
slabs of granite ledge
and waterfalling
over moss-strewn boulders.

Through the years
the farmhouse children,
Lucy and Rufus,
Harriet and Stephen,
followed the brook
from hilltop to river valley,
stirring the carpet of leaves,
slipping on moss,
dipping toes into icy brook water,
foraging for frog eggs,
and flipping over rocks and logs
to locate shy salamanders,
skipping through a childhood
rooted in the earth
of the farm,
discovering treasures
that abound by a brook
deep in the Maine woods.

Today, Ham’s Brook
still trickles down
inviting you
to slip into the shadows
between trees
to explore its tumbling length,
to ramble over its rocks
and to search for its source…

I imagine it springs
from deep beneath
the Old Ham Farm
and ebbs
and swells
through seasons and time,
coursing
through the landscape
like a pulse.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

Ham’s Brook, Lisbon, Maine

To enjoy more poetry, head to the Poetry Friday Roundup at Jama’s Alphabet Soup. You’re sure to be inspired!

Reverso poems are tough! When recently interviewed by Michelle H. Barnes at Today’s Little Ditty, Marilyn Singer summarizes a reverso like this: “A reverso is one poem with two halves.  The second half reverses the lines with changes only in punctuation and capitalization and it must say something completely different from the first half.”  I was able to get the first verse to reverse to a meaningful second verse, but I couldn’t capture the heart of a reverso–a totally different message when reversed. Oh well!  I’ll keep trying but thought I’d share this first effort anyway.

With dainty, slippered stamens,
dipped in electric blue,
Scilla dances
in the cool spring breeze,
each petal a marvel
as it bursts into bloom.
One single flower
enhancing
a watercolor world.

A watercolor world
enhancing
one single flower
as it bursts into bloom,
each petal a marvel.
In the cool spring breeze,
Scilla dances,
dipped in electric blue,
with dainty, slippered stamens.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

Somewhere  I have a picture from Connor’s first day of Kindergarten. It was a beautiful day in early fall. The bus drew to a stop before our house and we crossed the road together. Connor stepped up onto that tall, tall bus step and then with the encouragement of the bus driver and me, turned dutifully to have his picture taken, grinning at me. Then he turned, climbed up the remaining steps, and disappeared onto the bus. I crossed the road and the stop sign on the bus rotated in, the red, flashing lights turned off, and the bus slowly pulled away, gathered speed and moved down the road.  I waved and waved as it left, keeping it up as it went up and down the road, then disappeared in a misty yellow blur over the hill.

As this was almost 20 years ago, I wasn’t sure how my pictures would turn out. I deposited my film for development and waited. (My, how times have changed!) When they came back, there he was, my little boy, smiling on the steps of the bus, heading off on a new adventure. And then I noticed his hands. They were clenched tight, knuckles white. My heart cracked. On that day when he pasted that bright smile on his face, clearly he was scared as well. But he stepped up onto that bus, smiled for his picture, and took his seat. And I didn’t notice. I didn’t see his small clenched hands through my tears. I only saw his smile.

Next month Connor graduates from college. It’s hard to think about. As the oldest, he’s always been the one to go first–the one I’ve had to let go of first, little by little. While cleaning out my Inbox recently I found some old e-mails from his early college days, many of them from me to him. Not so many from him to me!  It’s an interesting record of our relationship. Many of mine were filled with variations of this line: I love you and miss you! and So, can you drop me a quick note so that I know you’re alive and hopefully thriving? or  Are you feeling any better?  My maternal radar is on high, trying to pick up incoming signals of your health status.

There are also helpful bits of advice: P.S.  It’s good etiquette to answer your mother’s e-mails, especially around Christmas time.

Or evidence of enabling:  We mailed your package yesterday so keep an eye out for it!  Your glasses are in a case tucked into the middle of all the clothes.  I also sent out your thank you notes today and will hopefully deposit your checks this weekend. 

I also found some snippets of our conversation on our drive up to get textbooks for his first semester:

Last Sunday after enjoying (and envying) the splashes of color at my friend’s feeder, I switched to black oil sunflower seeds in my feeder. I put the seed out on Saturday evening and first thing Sunday morning, I had finches at the feeder!  I couldn’t believe how quickly they appeared.  I hadn’t seen one finch this spring and in less than 12 hours, there were more than half a dozen of them happily feeding in my yard!  How did they know?

The Bird Word
Do they read a daily flyer
to alert them one and all?
Do they indulge in back-fence talk
and disclose each new windfall?

Do they banter at the birdbath
’bout the tasty treat du jour?
Do they gossip while they’re gorging
at the feeder by the door?

Do the bluejays trade in hearsay,
while the chickadees chitchat?
Is there a message to decipher
in Woodpecker’s rat-a-tat?

Do the sparrows spread the good news?
Have they a coded whistle?
Could one chirp mean sunflower seeds
and two long tweets mean thistle?

I suspect they gather nightly
to exchange the bird seed news
and to plan their daytime visits
to the feeders that they choose.

Now when I hear their trilling song
sweetly fill the morning air,
I wonder if each note’s a clue,
information that they share.

I plan to sit and ponder
how the word spreads with such speed,
but I’m heading to the feed store first
to buy more bags of seed!

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

To enjoy more poetry, head to the Poetry Friday Roundup hosted by Michelle H. Barnes at  My Little Ditty.

It was snack time. Every day X has a Slim Jim. Every day he announces the flavor with great fanfare. On this particular day X pulled the Slim Jim from his lunchbox, looked at it, looked at it again, then held it aloft.
“Oh!” he announced with great enthusiasm,  “It’s a new flavor!  I’ve never had this one!” He paused and then said slowly and dramatically, “I can’t even read what it’s called!”
A friend rushed over, “I’ll help.” They bent their heads together trying to decipher the small print of the unknown word.
Curious, I approached, and the boys handed it to me.
“What does it say? What does it say?” they asked.
I looked, smiled, and then said, “Oh, I’m sure you can figure this out.” I wrote the letters of the unknown flavor in larger letters on the board. “Come on, give it a try.”

They stumbled through for a moment, trying a few possibilities, and then X called out, “Original! It says Original!” He danced about in place, triumphantly waving his Slim Jim in the air, chanting, “Original! Original!”

Then suddenly, he stopped, “Wait a minute… ”
His smile faded. His face fell.
“That means it’s just regular!”

Sometimes it’s better to just preserve the mystery.

When I was young, I always loved the stories where the characters may not have had much, but their house was sparkling clean, their clothes neatly mended, and their garden tilled, weeded, and supported as needed. Sadly, admiration doesn’t always translate to imitation. Cleaning is not my thing. When my children were young and saw me pull out the vacuum cleaner they immediately asked, “Who’s coming over?” This was a pretty accurate assessment of the situation.

I love having a clean home, but I’m not much on maintenance cleaning–it just isn’t a priority. It gets downright dirty around here sometimes. I feel bad about it. But not quite bad enough to rectify it or to put down my book (or my writer’s notebook, or my glass of wine…).  And spring cleaning? Do people really still do that? I mean that intensive wall-washing, curtain-washing, cabinet-scrubbing crazed top-to-bottom house cleaning?

Ellen Taylor, a Maine poet, tackles this topic in her poem, Spring Cleaning ,and though I may not be a cleaning goddess, Taylor’s poem resonates. There is something deeply satisfying about the click and clack of grit whirling down the vacuum cleaner hose. And I’ll let you in on a little secret– cleaning is especially satisfying when there’s a good supply of dust bunnies, dirt and debris to disappear and you can make visible progress!
Spring Cleaning

By Ellen M. Taylor

Why are there no poems of the joy
of vacuum cleaning after a long

winter? Of the pleasure of pulling
the couch back, sucking up cobwebs, dead

flies, candy cane wrappers, cookie crumbs?
The sun rises earlier now, flooding

the room with daffodil light, enough
to see long unseen clumps of dog hair,

 (Read the rest by clicking on the title.)

Soon after enjoying this poem, I read April Pulley Sayre’s Stars Beneath Your Bed: The Surprising Story of Dust, to my class. Pulley poetically explores the origins of dust–“Dust can be bits of unexpected things-“– and its timelessness –“Old dust stays around.”
This tickled my imagination and combined with Taylor’s poem to inspire me to rethink dust and dusting and to write this poem.

Dusting

The dust on my floors
has been stirred
by the feet of dinosaurs,
the leaping of gazelles and
the sweet shuffle of footie pj’s
in the early morning
on chilly winter days.

When I sweep the floor
and make the dust fly,
I stir up a tornado
of particles and pollens,
and pharaohs dance with dodos
in a temporary tango.

Scales from a butterfly’s wing,
a stray piece
from a comet’s streaking tail,
or fragments of skin-kissed skin
from my once-upon-a-time-toddlers
accumulate atop the old wooden table,
where once my grandparents dined,
and coat the lightbulbs
in the hallway chandelier.

With duster in hand,
I wipe away the remnants,
sneezing stardust,
and marvel
that our history
is writ through dust,
as is that of the universe.
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
Cosmic.
Historic.
Mundane.
Transcendent.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

If you’re interested in reading more poetry, Laurie Purdie Salas is hosting this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup.