It isn’t spring until
I venture out,
arms laden,
and set laundry to dance
on the taut nylon line
in the brisk, zephyrous air.
Sheets snap, flap and flutter,
absorb a medley of scent,
releasing it when I sink
into the embrace
of my newly-made bed.
I inhale the essence
of the sun-kissed, breezy day,
content at its end.

On Friday we were gathered on the cafeteria floor, waiting silently for the remaining classes to file in and sit down for our weekly assembly.  Two of my students suddenly began pointing at the floor and exclaiming excitedly.  I walked over to investigate.

“What’s up?” I asked quietly.

“There’s blood on the floor,” B and D said, pointing to a bright red spot between them.

 “Ew!” B said, squirming, “I don’t want to be near it!”

I looked closely at the glob of hardened mysterious substance on the floor. “Oh, I don’t think that’s blood,” I said, reassuringly,  “It’s probably just some food. Just scoot a little bit this way and don’t worry about it.  Assembly’s about to start.”

“It could be ketchup, “ D said. “That’s red and sticks to stuff.”

“It could be,” I said, ushering B to a different spot.

When I turned back to D, to guide him to a new spot, he said, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Hogan.  It isn’t blood or ketchup. It doesn’t taste or smell like anything.”

I froze.  “D,” I said slowly, “Did you taste it?”

I’m sure my facial expression must have been interesting, as he did not answer immediately.  After a moment he hesitatingly said, “No…..” and then picking up speed, he continued, “but I smelled it and when I smelled it, I could taste it and it didn’t taste or smell like anything.”

I stood still, staring at him,  trying to translate exactly what he had just said.  Could that possibly be right? Did he or didn’t he taste it?  I glanced at the blob on the floor.  It seemed intact.  Could he really have just smelled it?   

As I was debating what to do next, the Assistant Principal approached.  He pulled me slightly to the side and whispered , “Molly, did you know that D was just licking the floor?”  

I went time traveling this past Saturday at the Skolfield-Whittier house in Brunswick, Maine.  This time capsule of a home, last occupied full-time in 1925, captures late 19th century small town Maine life for a prominent family of sea captains, educators and doctors.  Fortunately for visitors, the furnishings, essentially a full estate, were carefully preserved by the family even as they made slight adjustments to accommodate new technologies.  Former occupants also tended to accumulate rather than replace, so the house is a treasure trove of historical artifacts.  With an able guide, each item in the home is a repository for stories about customs, people, and historical practices.

As we stood outside the home, Dan, our able tour guide, began our visit by inviting us to look at the brick exterior.  He explained that the custom of the time was to use the highest quality brick on the facade and public sides of the home, while cheaper bricks were used in the back.  The interior of the home reflected this same approach.  The “public” rooms were filled with material items to indicate social prominence and prosperity to visitors.  The back rooms were more austere. 

As we entered the house we entered those larger front rooms which were bedecked with artifacts reflecting the family’s international trade and travel, ornately carved wooden rails and moldings, marbled mantels, rich carpeting, and encaustic tiling.  Many items were imbued with deeper layers of meaning, invisible to the ignorant 21st century eye.  Dan served as our able translator.  A hall tree (coat stand) in the entry wasn’t simply a resting place for hats and umbrellas—its ornate carving made a subtle, but undeniable social statement, as did the calling card holder resting atop it.  Long curtains puddled over the floor in the dining room, their lavish length another indication of wealth.  A painting of one of thefamily’s ships was not merely decorative but also served as an insurance record of the ship in case of loss.  (Small figures are visible on the deck and, multiplied by two (for the crew resting below), this documented the crew required by the ship.)  We were hard pressed to leave each room as Dan held us in the palm of his hand, weaving stories of this family and their time.  This is the history that appeals to me—the personal stories anchored in tangible items that evoke the mists of the past and give me a sense of daily life long ago.

As we stepped into the back of the house, the contrast was remarkable.  Here the look was utilitarian rather than ornate.  Gone were the ornate woodwork, exotic furnishings, and opulent fabrics.  Narrow hallways wound from the dining room to the laundry room, pantry and kitchen.  These rooms were purely functional —social nuance had no role, as visitors did not reach these regions of the home.  Thus, objects residing in these rooms offer a more intimate glimpse into the lives of past residents.  In the kitchen a small glass jar holds a butterfly and a robin’s egg—treasures of a young collector.  A lock of hair and mementos of a child lost to tragedy rest in a box sitting in an upstairs room.  Packets of soap fill the top of an old icebox.  A slop hopper, designed to drain the contents of the household’s chamber pots, is tucked into a back corner. Each question we asked Dan sparked more and more stories about the lives of the residents, customs, historical practices, and more.  We journeyed back through time in this home, spell-bound. 

As I left the tour and re-emerged into present-day Brunswick, I pondered the message of the bricks, reflected in the interior decoration of the home.  The idea that the expensive brick and the richly appointed front rooms with their embedded social messages were a deliberately created public “personna” intrigued me.  I considered their contrast with the cheaper bricks at the back of the house, and I wondered whether there is a modern equivalent to this front room/back room practice.

There are certainly people who are “house proud” but I don’t believe there is such a contrast between the front and back, or the public and private rooms in our modern homes.  I suspect our efforts are more invested in our individual public images.  We work hard to create our public persona and as we all know, much can be hidden behind a carefully crafted facade.  I think of those much-maligned Christmas cards which regale the reader with happy events and accomplishments while leaving other less celebratory events unaddressed—out of sight in the back yard, as it were.  Is there another parallel in the public face we create on our social media sites?  People chose what to share and the picture they present to the world is often quite different from their more private lives.  I’m still considering how this practice has evolved through the years and wondering if perhaps, though many, many years have passed, we haven’t changed very much.  We’re all still putting our best brick forward.

I love flower shops.  The air is always rich with moisture and scent and my eyes feast on brilliant mixtures of blossoms.  I’m always amazed by the variety of forms a blossom can take:  Exuberant freckled lilies tossing their heady fragrance with abandon.  Delicate larkspur, trembling on tall spikes.  And generously petalled roses unfolding into infinity.  The combination of scents is so intense that the air seems to tremble with its potency.  I  imagine that this fragrant air hovers on the edge of attaining a multi-colored visibility.  Just one more blossom, one more scent, and wisps of colored vapor would illuminate the shop. 

Last Saturday,  with three local proms and Mother’s Day the next day, the local flower shop was a hive of activity, and the cooler had only a few lonely arrangements awaiting pick-up.  White labeled boxes filled with corsages and boutonnieres were stacked high on a small wooden bench and a number of people waited for assistance.  Lydia and I were there to pick up the boutonniere for her date.  After hours at the local salon, she was a fitting accompaniment to the vivid floral arrangements in the shop.  Her eyelids and lips were bedecked with color, her nails polished and shining and her honeyed hair twisted and braided into a flowing arrangement.  My own sweet Lydia preparing for her Senior Prom.  Where have the years gone?

As Lydia waited in line, I wandered through the small shop, admiring those small items that enhance a florist’s shop:  vases, frames, a small assortment of jewelry, blooming plants.  I returned to Lydia’s side as she paid, and noticed a small glass vase on the counter, holding a variety of random, extra blossoms.  One perfect dusky lilac rose caught my eye.  I touched its soft petals, envisioning my bridal bouquet.

“Oh, Lyddie, this rose is the exact color of the roses Daddy and I had at our wedding.” 

The florist overheard me and picked up the rose.  She twirled it slowly in her hand, smelled it, then handed it to me and Lydia, inviting us to do the same.  When it was my turn, I inhaled deeply, trying to recapture that afternoon so long ago.  I remember my wedding roses as richly perfumed, but this one had a more delicate aroma, subtle but lovely.  I inhaled deeply again, then handed the rose back to the florist.

She shook her head.  “No,” she said, “You keep it.  Happy Mother’s Day.”

“Oh!” I said, surprised by the thoughtful gesture,  “Thank you so much.”  I turned to leave, rose in hand, and unexpectedly felt my eyes well with tears.  Walking out the door next to my daughter, holding my reincarnated wedding rose in my hand, my heart was full. 

(My Tuesday slice, one day late!)

My first grade class settled into morning meeting at the carpet.  A few minutes later “Kim” piped up, “Mrs. Hogan!  I lost my tooth!”  Congratulations abounded and after a bit of hubbub, Kim followed the lost tooth protocol:  get a drink of water, put the tooth in a baggy, tuck the baggy into backpack.  (Yes, we have a sort of protocol—first graders lose a LOT of teeth!)  Then she sat back down and we got back on track.

About 10 minutes later “Sally” called out, “Mrs. Hogan!  I lost my tooth!”  Congratulations once again abounded and after a bit more hubbub, Sally got up to get a drink of water, and put her tooth in a baggy.  As I sent students off to read, I noticed a small commotion in the back of the room.  Several students were crawling about on the floor.  When I asked what was going on, Sally said, “I lost my tooth.” 

“I know, Sally.  Just put it in a baggy.” 

“No,” Sally said, “I dropped my tooth and I can’t find it!” 

“You mean you lost lost it?”

“Yes!” she said.  “I dropped it when I was putting it in the baggy.  I can’t find it.”

The rest of the class immediately swarmed over, eager to assist in the search.  Putting the kibosh on that, I sent them off to read and quarantined the affected area so Sally and I could begin a more thorough search.  A lengthy visual search of the carpeted area did not yield a tooth.  “It bounced this way, I think,” said Sally.  She pointed toward the adjacent classroom.  I pulled open the door and peeked in.  My colleague glanced up, curious at the interruption. 

“Just looking for a rogue tooth,” I explained.  Sadly, it wasn’t there.

It was now time for a physical search.  With thoughts of bodily fluids in my mind ( Should I wear gloves?  She’s in first grade!  Her blood is safe!) I knelt on the floor and began tentatively sweeping my hands over the carpet.  No tooth.  I extended the search area, but still no luck.  We even pulled out the file cabinet and emptied a nearby bin.  No luck.  No tooth.  “I’m sorry, Sally, I just can’t find it.  I can’t imagine where it went.” 

“Ok,” she said, resignededly.

Fast forward 3 1/2 hours.  I go to pick my class up from their Tech. Ed. specials class.  As I arrive, the students call out, “Mrs. Hogan!  ‘John’ lost his tooth!” 

“Wow, John!” I said. “Another lost tooth!  That’s three today!”

“Yes,” Mrs. B., the specials teacher said, “But unfortunately he lost lost it.”

I stared at her for a moment “You’re kidding me,” I finally said.

“No,” she replied, “It was right next to him, but now we can’t find it.”  Then she added in a quiet aside to me, “I hope no one took it. It was right there on the table.”

Ewww.  I thought, That is just gross.  But, I conceded silently, definitely a possibility—a remote one, but a possibility, nonetheless.

John wasn’t thrilled to leave without his tooth, but Mrs. B. assured him that she’d continue to look for it and we headed back to class.  Back at the classroom we gathered at the carpet for our read aloud.  Halfway through the chapter, a student called out excitedly, “Hey!  I just found a tooth!”  He held a small item aloft for all to see.  Hubbub ensued.  Are you kidding me? 

On the surface it would seem like this was a happy solution to Sally’s lost tooth situation.  Unfortunately, the found tooth was right next to John and not near where Sally said she’d lost her tooth.  My mind raced.  It must be Sally’s tooth.  Logically it should be Sally’s tooth.  But it’s nowhere near where she said she lost it.  Could John’s tooth have lodged onto his clothes somehow, traveled back from the computer room and fallen off now?  Whose tooth is it?  Stupidly, I asked, (Yes, I really did say this.  I don’t know why.)  “Sally, does it look like your tooth?”  She took the tooth and turned it from side to side, looking at it carefully.  “I think so,” she said uncertainly.  Another helpful student raised his hand, waving it vigorously, calling out “I know how we can check!!!  I know how we can check!!!  We can…”

“No!”  I interrupted preemptively and probably loudly, certain his strategy involved checking whose empty socket the tooth fit best. “No,” I repeated, then continued in a more moderate tone, “OK, Sally, I’m sure it’s your tooth.  Put the tooth in a baggy to take home.” 

(Oh my God!  I hope that’s Sally’s tooth.  What if I’m sending John’s tooth home with Sally?  I am really not sure whose tooth that is….)

The rest of the day passed uneventfully.  At least no one lost another tooth!  At the end of the day, John’s mom was picking him up and as he left he said, wistfully,”I wish I had my tooth.” I just hope that Sally has her tooth, not yours, I thought!  I walked my kids out to the bus and stopped in to the office to check my mail.  As I left the office, John was walking down the hallway with his mom and Mrs. B..  He saw me and held up his hand triumphantly, fingers clenched tightly about a small object,  “Mrs. Hogan!  Mrs. Hogan!  Mrs. B. found my tooth!”  Thank goodness!

Today I’d like
to hurtle back through time
I’d walk into our sunny kitchen
glance at my busy mother,
quietly moan
and clutch my belly
(not too dramatically
just enough)
“My tummy hurts.”
“I feel sick.”
“Do I have a fever?”
With 5 kids
my mom was savvy
such tactics generally doomed
But there was a chance…
If my charade was unconvincing
and school still loomed,
I would want
to kick and stomp my feet
to wail at full volume,
til seismic tremors
rattled the walls of the house
“I don’t wanna go to school!”
“I don’t wanna go to school!”
But even as a child
I recognized the futility
Such behavior was unseemly.
The taboo remains
So today
I will go to school
pasting a smile on my face
but internally
I’m kicking and screaming
the walls are shaking
my tantrum is in full swing
“I don’t wanna go to school!”

I love watching birds, but identifying bird song confounds me.  I just can’t do it.  I know the wild jungle call of the pileated woodpecker, the soft call of a mourning dove and the cheerful chickadee-dee-dee of the chickadee, but that’s about it.  Kurt and I even took a birding class once.  The instructor would play a recording of a bird call and say something optimistic like, “Listen closely and you’ll hear the Carolina Wren sing, “germany, germany, germany.”  We both heard, “Tweet. Tweet. Tweet.”  Or she’d say, “This distinctive call sounds like, ‘Maids, maids, maids, put on your tea, kettle, kettle, kettle’.”  “Tweet. Tweet. Tweet.”  This happened over and over and over again with a wide, seemingly unending, variety of birds.  (Epic failure but we laughed a lot.)  

We have an assortment of bird feeders in our cottage garden. Over the years I have wrestled with my conscience about filling them, as we are a household with cats.  In the past, I’ve felt that putting out bird food was akin to accessorizing avian murder.  It wasn’t bird feeding, it was cat feeding!  Every time a small feathered body was left on my doorstep, I cringed and felt stained with guilt.  Paint a scarlet letter on my forehead!

This year, the severity of the winter weather and the increasing lethargy of my geriatric cats tempted me to try again.  I headed out to the store and pondered over daunting varieties of suet and seed.  Choices made, I returned home and filled up the feeders.  Then I settled in for a winter of bird watching. 

I’ve come to realize that bird watching is addictive.  Walking by the window, I see a flick of movement, and I glance out to see what’s happening.  Before I know it, I’ve sat down and I’m hooked.  It’s like watching fish with a bit more drama.  An aquarium is tranquil.  Silent.  Languid.  The fish glide through the water, meandering through streaming fronds of sea plants.  There’s that mesmerizing element with bird-watching, too; however, there’s the extra allure of the possibility of an unanticipated arrival.  Chickadees are ever-present, brave and cheeky.  But, a flash of red and there’s a cardinal.  Or perhaps a red bellied woodpecker has come to call or a brilliant yellow finch.  One never knows who might appear on the scene.  One thing is for certain, if you walk away, you will miss something!  So, I sit, sip my coffee, watch and listen. For just one more minute.    

A bird does not sing because it has an answer.  It sings because it has a song.  ~Chinese Proverb

My youngest daughter, Lydia, has always had a song.  At an impossibly early age, her older sister taught her to hum “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.”  As she got older, we always knew when she was awake in the morning because, like a little bird, she greeted each day with song.  Early in the morning we’d hear her little voice warbling over the baby monitor—the sweetest alarm clock ever.  At restaurants and stores she’d sing in the bathroom.  Loudly.  (I think she enjoyed the acoustics.)  In second grade, she got in trouble for singing too much in class.  It probably didn’t help that she was singing songs like “Cell Block Tango” from the musical, Chicago.  (“You been screwin’ the milkman?”)  And we still tease her about the song she wrote, at perhaps 7, entitled, “I want to be 16 or 18 or older!”.  My darling want-to-grow-up-too-soon musical daughter.  And now, after years of chorus and a few musicals and countless hours of singing, she’s finally there.

This year, as a senior in high school, she had to complete a capstone project.  She opted to study opera.  My daughter, the diva.  I’ve always loved her voice, but now she sings opera and it blows me away.  I don’t have a trained ear and can’t analyze her singing, but oh my goodness, it moves me.  The rise and fall of her voice resonates, joyfully and achingly, somewhere deep in my being. 

Tomorrow as she wraps up her senior year, she presents her capstone project and she’ll be singing.  I’ll be there in the audience, tears brimming, proud and filled with wonder.  How did my little song bird get to be this confident, accomplished young woman?  How quiet our empty nest will be next year.

Beneath the winter debris,
spring is stirring.
I found it in the garden this morning.
In the chilly air, it lay concealed
beneath crumbling russet leaves.
Garden phlox, the boldest,
has ventured an inch above the ground
threading through bleached skeletal stalks
of last year’s abundant growth.
My patient, questing eye detects
the cautious crimson tips of the peony
pressing their way through the earth,
and tender green leaves curled and unfolding,
baubled with sparkling drops from a recent dousing.
Lily of the Valley
Sedum
Cranesbill Geranium
Lady’s Mantle
Columbine
Coral Bells
Jacob’s Ladder
Bleeding Heart
I revel in their promise and their presence
and their names trip off my tongue
like a pagan chant or an ancient blessing.
Warming my heart.
A call to the gods of nature.
Spring is stirring.

This morning the skies are blue and the sun is shining brightly  but the house is quite cool.  I light the wood stove to chase away the chill.  How many more fires will I light before spring is fully entrenched?  Quite a few, I suspect.  In the summer I love the cool mornings with warm days but in early spring the colder mornings can seem like a step backward.  This morning, however, snuggled up with a good pen, a notebook and a fresh cup of coffee, I’m content.

It’s spring break and now that I’m over an unfortunate stomach ailment, I can settle in and enjoy it.  I got up early this morning excited to make my list.  What is it about lists?  I love making them!  They are so full of promise—all that I can do—but also full of duty—all that I need to do.  They cast order over the chaos of my world.  There’s an illusion that all will be well if I just manage to cross out everything on my to-do list. Though at times they are overwhelming, the act of creating them soothes me.  They are my road map to order and organization.

Sometimes I’ll have multiple lists going.  Often one is for school and one for home.  Or one for outside and one for inside.  Or one for a specific topic—like planning for a trip or for a particular room in the house.  My lists can be intended for completion in a day, or over a week, or even over several months.  In a sense, when I create a list, I’m making goals for myself.  And, by the way, I am one of those people.  You know, the ones who will write something on a list that they’ve already done, so that they can cross it off?  Sometimes I will break larger tasks down into several smaller items so they aren’t as daunting and I can see some progress along the way.  Drawing a line through a completed task is a glittery gold star in my world.

Sometimes I’ll write really little things on my list.  I remember talking with my Dad once about my mom’s ubiquitous lists.  He was clearly puzzled.  “Your mother got a bit carried away with lists.  She used to write “pluck eyebrows” on them and things like that.”  Well, Dad, she did have five children in a 7-year span.  I suspect that writing those things on the list was the only way to remember them!  Though I don’t have 5 kids, list love and a pending unibrow were apparently genetic, and I can relate.  It’s just good list practice to add a few things that you can cross off your list with relative ease and that also make you feel better.  Today, I make sure to add “paint toenails” to mine.  It’s my defiant gesture at the lingering cold weather and a list-toast to my mom.

It’s so easy for my focus to narrow to the world of school and home maintenance.  On this break, I’m focusing on home and me.  I’m sure a school list will bubble to the surface soon enough, but for now I’m consciously ignoring that one.  I’m determined to make some visible changes to my house—inside and out.  A painting project will definitely go on the list along with some gardening goals and basic cleaning. My list also carves out space for more personal good intentions.  I want to start running again —“run at least 3 times”.  I’ve also written “do three new things” on my list, along with “go to the beach” and “go to a museum” and “write at least 3 blog posts”. Putting these personal goals and outings on the list elevates them to the same status as the “must dos” or “should dos”.  It reminds me that they are just as valid and worthy of time and effort.  Sometimes I need that reminder.

My list is my map to accomplishing all these things.  In black and white.  And even though I know I won’t cross each item off my list, I still have the evidence of good intentions and the illusion that it’s possible to do it all.  And with some smaller items thrown in, I’m certain to earn at least a few glittery gold stars along the way.