March SOLC – Day 4

The sun shone through the palm trees, gloriously warm on my New England winter-pale skin. The on-shore breeze stirred the palms into a rustle and their shadows danced over the surface of the pool. In the background the constant surge and swish of the ocean sang and the pelicans dove in the surf.

Sitting by the pool in Puerto Rico, I surreptitiously wiped tears from my cheeks, and my heart ached. Slowly I closed the book I had just finished reading, setting it gingerly on my blue and white striped beach towel. I had to get up. I had to move. Something felt cracked or bruised inside of me. I walked over to the edge of the patio and stared blindly out into the brilliant turquoise of the Caribbean Sea.

I was bereft. I wanted to throw my head back and howl into the tropical wind. To ululate. To keen. To wail with grief. I fought to stifle the sobs welling within me.  How? How can people be capable of such atrocity? How can people be capable of such bravery? How is it that the worst in man can inspire the best? And, oh sweet Lord, how can humans be so incredibly resilient?

Two days ago I wrote about books and how they have impacted my life through the years. Stephen King believes that writing is telepathy. In On Writing he wrote that “All the arts depend upon telepathy to some degree, but I believe that writing offers the purest distillation.”   On the morning I described I hadn’t been in Puerto Rico, I’d been moving through war-torn Europe, witnessing the heights and depths of humanity, transported through space and time by the pages of my book.  There is surely magic in the ability of an author to craft words about the horrors of war and the triumphs of individuals into a reading experience that sent tears streaming down my cheeks in the tropical sun and simply put, overwhelmed me.

After some time spent staring at the ocean, struggling to regain my equilibrium, I stuffed those feelings deep within me, incapable of fully wrestling with them, at this time, in this setting. But before returning to the sun and the surf, I bowed my head, bearing witness to the past and acknowledging the power of Kristin Hannah and the written word.

During my second pregnancy, way back in the early 1990s, I was on bedrest for 10 weeks. My midwives made weekly home visits and I did not leave the second floor of our Baltimore townhouse.  The second floor wasn’t large, consisting of our bedroom, a hallway and the bathroom. Thankfully, I had shower and toilet privileges, but otherwise I was restricted to bed at a 30 degree or less angle. I was an incredibly compliant patient because I was absolutely scared to death. Less than a year earlier I had buried my three day old son and I could not bear to lose another child.

During my time on bedrest, I worked diligently to keep my mind occupied and away from the quagmire of panic that lurked. Time dragged. I had visitors but my friends and family had their own busy lives and not many were local. Bear in mind this was decades ago–no cell phones, no ipads with apps, no social networks, etc. I refused to nap because I feared sleepless nights with no distractions. I learned to cross-stitch, I read,and I spent hours watching Matlock and Barnaby Jones episodes. (I remember one stellar day when there was a 24-hour Matlock Marathon!)  I listened to the radio, talked on the phone, and spent too much time playing the newest StarWars game and Zelda on the Nintendo. The highlight of my day was crossing off the previous day on my calendar and knowing my baby was one day older and stronger.

During this time I developed a lovely relationship with the UPS man, perhaps bordering on a crush. Thanks to the generosity of friends and family looking to distract me, and my unlimited time with catalogues, he visited our home with some frequency.   Each and every day stretched before me with hours to fill and anything that altered the pace of the day was welcome. I thought about the UPS man a lot (Will he come today? Is that his truck I hear?)  and was always delighted when he arrived. He knocked on the door at ground level and I peeked out my second floor window. After we exchanged waves and hellos and a short conversation, I lowered the house key on a long string to him. He unlocked the door, set the package inside, then locked up again. We’d wave goodbye and I would then pull the key back up to the bedroom. That was it. But it was a bit of unexpected sparkle in my day. The UPS man’s visits were rejuvenating: A chance to stand up for a few minutes, stick my head out the window and interact with the world. The tough part was waiting for my husband to get home before I could find out what sort of package had arrived. Sometimes I knew what it was but other times I spent lots of time imagining. Either way it gave me something to think about and broke the monotony of those long, lonely days.

I stumbled across this poem the other day and it reminded me of how I looked forward to those visits and quick chats with that long-ago UPS man. It also totally tickled my funny bone.  It’s just sheer, unadulterated fun! I smiled the whole time I read this and am convinced that Alice N. Persons had a grin on her face as she wrote it.

Why I Have A Crush On You, UPS Man
by Alice N. Persons

you bring me all the things I order
are never in a bad mood
always have a jaunty wave as you drive away
look good in your brown shorts
we have an ideal uncomplicated relationship
you’re like a cute boyfriend with great legs
who always brings the perfect present
(why, it’s just what I’ve always wanted!)
and then is considerate enough to go away
oh, UPS Man, let’s hop in your clean brown truck and elope !

read the rest of this poem at http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2007/08/21

Epilogue: After ten weeks, I was 34 weeks pregnant and bedrest ended. You’d think I’d have leapt out of bed, jubilant, but I was still so scared. Bedrest seemed to have worked so why shouldn’t I hang out for a few more weeks until the baby was full term?  My midwives announced, kindly but firmly, that I needed to get up and moving and that they would no longer come to my house for visits. I had to go to them. And so I got up and moving, once more interacting with the world.

My son was born 2 weeks later, weighing 6 lbs 6 ounces. He turns 23 in June.

For more poetry, go to this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup at TeacherDance.

March SOL Challenge–Day 3

Books have nurtured me throughout my life. Within their pages I’ve found so many things: Companionship, wisdom, adventure, knowledge, understanding, wonder, refuge, and respite. I truly believe there have been times in my life when books saved me–offering me escape from painful reality, a new perspective or a way to move forward.

I pick up books at book stores, library sales, yard sales, my local recycling barn, and anywhere else I can lay my hands on them.  At my home, books tumble in piles near my bed, fill cardboard boxes, gather on table tops, crowd multiple bookcases, and even spill over into my car. These accumulated books often carry tangible talismans from their past: a comment scribbled in the margin, dog-eared pages, a torn corner, a coffee cup stain, photographs, a note, a letter, a receipt, an inscription.  Each mark or item tells a story that adds to the book. I can only imagine the details, but feel richer for having touched or held these items. They add another layer to the story of that book.  Perhaps the life of a book doesn’t only exist within its pages but encompasses its life as a physical object, accumulating over time.

Not surprisingly my classroom is also filled with books.  The other day I was tidying up, tucking books away in the classroom library, and I found this anonymous sticky note waving from the pages of a book.

Translation (for those who are not fluent in First Grade):

note to me
T.rex has a period
after T
but the R
is still lowercase

This note delighted me on so many levels, though I struggle to explain exactly why. I can imagine a student actively reading this book, thoroughly engaged and aware, noticing that lower case r after T. in T.rex and then puzzling about it. I love the evidence that this student stopped and wondered about something new or different. This time it was punctuation, perhaps next time it will be an idea or an unknown word. There is an earnest learner here, taking the time to write a memo “note to me”, and clearly writing down each sound (and a few extras) to spell that challenging word “period”.  “Pearyied.” And I guess at the bottom of it all, I’m entranced by that earnestness, that investment in learning, and by the evidence left of a reading life.

After I read the sticky note and shared it with a few colleagues, I tucked it back into the pages of that book. There it rests, another layer in this book’s life, a talisman, waiting for discovery by another reader at another time.

SOL March Challenge Day 2

Hmm…maybe I’ll run today. The thought entered my head quietly as I sat and worked at the table on Sunday, occasionally glancing up at the blue sky and drifting clouds outside. I hadn’t run in months but the mercury was rising and the idea of running was tempting. Time passed and I kept working, but the thought had planted itself and grew steadily, becoming more insistent. Finally, not one to turn down a consistent burst of motivation, I decided.

“I’m going running!”  I announced to my husband. “If I’m not back within an hour, come looking for me.” He laughed and settled on the couch for an afternoon nap.

Ten minutes later I walked down the driveway and turned to the left. I would run either a 2 or 3 mile loop, depending on how it went. Pleased with myself for getting out and moving on this beautiful day, I set off.   Running is a great thinking time for me and sparks lots of writing ideas, so immediately my thoughts turned to the upcoming SOL challenge. What might I write about?  I settled into my stride, looking about me at the dreary mid-winter scenery, seeking inspiration.  I smiled when I noticed emerging pussy willow buds and watched as crows postured in the neighbor’s yard. It felt great to be out in the sun and running again!

Up ahead I heard dogs barking from a neighbor’s house.  It looked like there were more of them than usual and I was glad to see two people were outside, calling them back. These dogs always bark and run to the edge of the property, but never come out into the road.  I ran closer and a pile of dogs bounded up, barking and barking. Just keep running.

“Knock it off!” the man yelled. “Get back here!”

I waved and kept running but moved further out into the road.  Suddenly, one of the dogs separated from the group, jumped forward into the road, and, in an instant, bit me! I stopped, stunned, feeling the pain in my lower leg. The man and woman continued to call the dogs and thankfully, they all retreated.

“Sorry!” the man called.

“Your dog just bit me!” I said.

“No, he didn’t.”

“Yes, he did!” I insisted and pulled up my running pants to reveal two shallow grooves with welling blood.

“Oh,” he said, startled, “I thought he just jumped on you. Are you ok?”

“Well, I think so.”  I watched anxiously as he and the woman herded the dogs into the house. I was shell-shocked and my leg hurt. I can’t believe this just happened.   The man returned.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “He’s not even my dog. He’s my sister’s.”

“Well,” I asked, “Is he up to date on his shots. I need to see proof of his vaccinations.”

That, unfortunately, wasn’t quite as simple as one would have hoped. And so began a long afternoon of confusing conversations, multiple calls to doctors, veterinary clinics, and the animal control officer, and a 2+ hour visit to the Walk-In Clinic for a tetanus shot. Luckily, the injury was minor and the dog was up to date on shots (though this took almost 24 hours to ascertain and still isn’t 100% official as there remains a complicated snag with the confirming paperwork).

During all the stress and chaos of the afternoon, so many thoughts raced through my head. Chief among them after Ouch! and I can’t believe this just happened! was Oh my God, am I going to have to get a rabies vaccine!?!  (You know, the one everyone hastened to assure me was incredibly painful and expensive?)  Other thoughts raced in and out as well.  Why didn’t I turn right? Why couldn’t he have bitten me on the way home after my run instead of only 1/4 mile into it? And, I’m not kidding, the final thought, once the initial shock was over: Well, I guess I’ll have something to slice about this week!

The March Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOLSC) is on and this is my second year of participation! Thanks so much to  Two  Writing Teachers for hosting.  
First thing Monday  morning, my students filed into the room, happy and chattering, putting book bags in cubbies, signing in for lunch, making plans for recess.  Within a few minutes, J. bounced up to me sporting a wide gap-toothed grin, both hands tucked behind her back.
“Mrs. Hogan, guess which hand has something in it!”
My first response, I’m sorry to say, was a sigh. An inward sigh, but a sigh nonetheless. It had been a crazy weekend and I already felt behind. J. has a hard time settling into work and is eager to indulge in any available distraction. Another student was already making loud, rude noises and refusing to follow his Ed. Tech’s directions.”No. No. No.” he parrotted over and over again. My arm throbbed from yesterday’s unexpected tetanus shot (the crazy weekend–a slice for some other day) and another student hovered at my elbow, wanting my attention.

For some reason, I stopped the redirections that immediately leapt to my lips (“J. you need to get started on your morning work.”), took a deep breath, and joined in her game, temporarily ignoring the pressing needs around me.
“Hmmmm…” I hesitated, tapping my finger on my chin. “This one,” I said suddenly and decisively, pointing to her left arm.
She pulled her hand from behind her back, spreading empty fingers.
“No,” she said, her smile spreading even wider, “but you have one more chance!”
I smiled, too,  my mood lightening instantly.
“Hmmmm…”I deliberated again, fully involved in the game at this point. “How about… this one?” I pointed to her other arm.
“Yes!” She beamed, pulling her hand from behind her back. In it she held a Russell Stover Valentine candy bar– Strawberries and Cream.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s for you!” she said.  “It was at Shaw’s and it was a leftover!”

Sweet leftovers from a first grader to sweeten the start of the week. It was a good Monday.

Today is the last day in Laura Shovan’s FOPP. I wasn’t able to participate as much as I’d planned, but it was a powerful experience.  I am so thankful for her generosity in hosting this project. The picture below sparked thoughts of carnivals and fairs, with their accompanying rides and food, which somehow transformed into a poem about the ride through the challenge itself.

Laura’s Carnival
The carnival arrives
on a wintery breeze
A sensory extravaganza
with an open invitation,
but…
“You can’t win
if you don’t play!”
So, dive on in
Ride on waves of words,
rhythm and rhyme,
alliteration and syncopation.
Visit the funhouse
where words twist and twine
into intriguing shapes
and mirrors reflect new images
into eternity.
Try your skill on the games.
Select words like a sharpshooter
Picking off targets.
With all your strength and wit,
set your pen onto paper
with a resounding crash.
“Ring the bell!
Ring the bell!”
Overindulge on tasty terms
and luscious prose.
Wipe the grease from your chin.
Take a spin on the carousel,
up and down,
hang on and enjoy the ride.

But all good things
must come to an end.
It’s time
to pack up the party
shut down the fun
No days left
in this carnival’s run.
Phrases litter the ground
and crumpled papers
rustle in the wind
“Step right up!
Everyone’s a winner!”

When I looked at this latest photo from Laura Shovan’s FOPP, I couldn’t look away from that jaunty sun. Having recently returned to Maine from a vacation in Puerto Rico, I’m missing the caress of tropical sun on my skin.

Arriving in Puerto Rico
We tipped our faces to the sun
heads like bobbing buds
on slender neck stalks.
Warmth seeped into our bones,
flushing our cheeks
petal-pink.

Each morning
we moved into daylight
instinctively leaning
toward the sun.
Phototropic
in the tropics.

I’ve been partially participating in Laura Shovan‘s Found Object Poetry Project this month. This photo (Day 28) had me longing for spring and budding flowers.

I recognized the distinctive bud as most likely belonging to the Allium family but did a quick search to make sure I wasn’t totally off-base. I then discovered the botanical term “umbel”. An umbel is a group or cluster of flowers with a number of short flower stalks coming from one common central point, rather like the ribs of an umbrella. It’s typical of the Allium family. Given a bit more time, this bud would burst out into a beautiful umbel, potentially looking something like this:

Blooming Allium always remind me of fireworks. They’re such jubilant blossoms and have a bit of over-the-top Seuss-like whimsy to them.  The photo of the bud planted the idea of them “lollipopping” into the sky, I discovered the word, umbel, (happily beginning with a u) and this acrostic poem grew from there.

Allium
A burgeoning bud
Lollipops into the sky
Launches into an
Illuminated
Umbel
Making merry in the garden

Note to self: Pick up some Allium bulbs this May for an explosion of color in the garden.   Spring can’t come soon enough!

If you’d like to read some more poetry, head on over to Elizabeth Steinglass‘s blog– She’s hosting today’s Poetry Friday Round up!

This month I’ve been participating (occasionally!) in Laura Shovan’s Found Object Poem Project. Although I haven’t participated in a while, I’m jumping back into the mix with this photo, for Day 25:

A Constellation of Keys
Common key cards
have no romance,
slipping into a pocket
without a wrinkle,
unnoticeable,
silent and disposable.

Carved metal keys
have character
and reassuring heft.
They clink happily
in a pocket,
socializing with spare change,
or if you please,
they sit in hand,
guaranteeing imminent access
or denying the same.

Patiently waiting on hooks,
a constellation of keys
has purpose,
power and potential,
silently offering up
an array of possibilities.

Pelican sunrise

Morning comes softly to Puerto Rico. An early array of colors blushes the sky, edging clouds with indigo shadows. The sky brightens slowly but steadily until the sun eases over the horizon in a final burst of radiance. In the in-between time the pelicans arrive. One by one or in groups of two or three. They wing their way across the dawn, entrancing me as surely as the sunrise.

Their silhouettes and dense beaks call to mind pterodactyls and prehistoric times. They whirl and circle over the shallow surging surf, powerful and fluid in flight. Intently they eye the depths and then turn, dive and plunge, hitting the water with an audible THUD! and a splash, like a fish-seeking
missile.  When they’re successful, they emerge from turquoise water to tilt their head back, their distinctive throat pouch apparent as they swallow their catch…gulp, gulp. Soon they’re off again wheeling and diving or gliding in smoothly to rest on a piling, rousting smaller birds. They spread their wings wide and perch, facing the early morning sun.

Action at the pilings

Preening, they  ruffle through their feathers with their long beaks. Sometimes they twist their sinuous necks and rub their heads up and down their backs, over and over again. Some float in the water, rising and falling  with the crests of the waves, seemingly unperturbed by the motion around them.

Each morning last week I sat on a bench, in a hammock or at the open-air restaurant watching the pelicans, fascinated by their ceaseless activity, enthralled and relishing the sweet start to the day. This week, back at home in Maine, morning comes softly as well. It has its own dramatic beauty, framed by pines and oaks rather than palm trees, and it is just as sweet. But I do miss those pelicans.

On a side note, no post about pelicans could be complete without including this wonderful, whimsical pelican limerick–a clever delight no matter who authored it. It often ran through my mind as I enjoyed watching the pelican escapades each morning.

The Pelican:
by Ogden Nash or by Dixon Lanier Merritt

A wonderful bird is the pelican,
His bill can hold more than his beli-can.
He can take in his beak
Food enough for the week;
But I’m damned if I see how the heli-can.

Note: I did a bit of research and learned that pelicans aren’t only fun to watch, they’re quite fascinating to read about. They rub their heads on their backs to pick up an oily secretion from their glands. The rubbing head then distributes this over their feathers to keep them waterproof.  Apparently they also have air sacs under their skin and in their bones to keep them especially buoyant.  These air sacs also help cushion their bodies when they hit the water in those high speed fish-seeking dives. Another fun fact–the American white pelican can hold up to 3 gallons of water in its bill.  Wow! Finally, I learned that there’s a reason pelicans look prehistoric–they’ve  been around for 30 to 40 million years!  Clearly they’re doing something right!