Today we had a Code Red drill at school.  We’ve practiced before, so the kids know what to do:.  Head to our assigned spots on the floor by the cubbies, be quiet, and wait.  Pretty simple yet also overwhelming.  I warn them beforehand that someone will try the door to make sure it is locked, so they might hear that.  Then we wait and wait and wait for the “all clear notice.”  I hate practicing these drills.  I hate what they represent.

We try to keep it matter-of-fact:  “This is just another drill to make sure we can be safe in an emergency.”  “It’s just like a fire drill.”  At our school Code Yellow means we have to stay in the building because something isn’t safe outside.  Code Red means we have to stay in the classroom because something isn’t safe in the building.  Many teachers have cited examples of Code Yellows that can happen at a rural school—bear seen in the area, rabid fox, whatever.  The kids can create long involved scenarios about how a fox might be outside so they can’t go to recess, or maybe a bear has been sighted and that’s why it isn’t safe.  They generally accept the fire drill analogy for Code Red drills.

At 6 and 7 years old though, some of them don’t quite get it.  Today after I told them about the impending drill, one student  asked, “Well, who is going to be the bear?  Mr. P or Mr. S.?”  Apparently somehow this student had the impression that the Principal or the Vice Principal was going to dress up like a bear and wander through the school checking to ensure the doors were locked.  I guess he combined his understandings of Code Red and Code Yellow.  It would be funny if it didn’t bring tears to my eyes.

During the actual drill the kids did well until one of them had a sneezing attack.  Sitting near her cubby, she grabbed her stuffed animal and proceeded to sneeze into it repeatedly.  Several students nearby began giggling.  It was contagious.  One student climbed into his cubby and peeked out from behind his coat—again and again.  More stifled giggles.  With some stern looks, I managed to quell most of the noise and finally the drill ended.

After a quick debrief, we took a break for snack.  One student who had done a super job is typically a bit “squirrelly” and has a hard time managing his energy.  I made it a point to compliment him on how well he had done.  He said, earnestly “You know why I did such a good job, Mrs. Hogan?”

“No, why?”

“Well,” he said,  “It’s because if it was a real Code Red, I wouldn’t want to make noise ’cause I wouldn’t want to be dead.”    

“Mrs. Hogan!  Mrs. Hogan!  Mrs. Hogan!” my first-grade student exclaimed, “I know everyone’s last name in the classroom except yours.”

“What?” I asked, slightly confused.

“I know everyone’s last name in the class except yours.” he repeated, still grinning with his accomplishment.

“But, B., you just said my last name.” I stated.

“What?” he asked, wrinkling up his nose and tilting his head to look up at me, clearly puzzled.

“You just said my last name,” I repeated, “when you said my name.”

“Mrs. Hogan?” he queried.

“Yes,” I said, “Hogan is my last name.”

“Oh,” he said, “I didn’t know that.”

I’m still shaking my head…and laughing…and shaking my head again…

Today I read Kate Messner’s post about a bitter controversy swirling around YA author Andrew Smith’s comments in a recent interview.  Entering the piece I was curious, taking a slightly-guilty detour from my plans for my day (managing car repairs, grading, lesson plans, etc).  Leaving the piece, I was deeply saddened and concerned.  I had heard about the severe trolling that targets women who write about sexism in the gaming world.  I suppose in my mind I thought this was awful but relegated it to the “gaming community” of which I am not a member.  It’s only an isolated segment of our population—horrible in a remote sort of way, not really my problem.  And yes, I feel ashamed as I type this.

However, reading Kate’s post made me revise my woefully superficial understanding of the depths of this issue.  I mean, why would anyone post hostile comments on a Ted-Ed learning video about writing fiction?  Or a photo essay on an Adirondack spring?  What is this amorphous rage that spews out in hateful bursts onto the internet?  I just don’t understand.  Is this solely because women are the authors?  Is it some sort of inchoate rage that simmers, erupting in random directions?  I really don’t understand.  Do these people feel empowered by taking others down?  Is there something in our culture or in internet anonymity or a combination of some sort that breeds this sort of hate?

I recently listened to a piece on This American Life in which an author, Lindy West, who was severely trolled,  spoke with one of her trollers—now repentent.  This man had gone to elaborate lengths to harm this woman—creating a Twitter profile for her recently deceased father that included a picture and a bio that read “Embarrassed father of an idiot; the other two kids are fine”.  He even tweeted her from this fake account.  When talking to her now, the troller suggested that a lot of his self-hate was directed toward her because the issues that challenged him in his life were ably addressed in her own and didn’t affect her happiness.  Why do some feel free to strike out at others when they are in pain?

Assuming he speaks the truth, I’m glad this man has stopped his trolling activities, but really the damage had been done.  I’m sorry doesn’t make it all better.  Lindy West noted afterward, “It’s frightening to discover that he’s so normal”.  Apparently crazy, violent hatred can come disguised in banal packages and travel through the internet without repercussion.  In a move imbued with the humanity so lacking in trolls, Lindy West chose not to reveal his name. 

As a writer who is taking risks these days (extremely minor ones, but significant to me), I’ve been enjoying the anonymity of the web.  Sure, my name is on my fledgling blog, but few friends know I am doing this, and the positive power of the Slice of Life writing community has been so uplifting.  In marked contrast to these other women, I have anticipated reading any comments I get!  I can’t help but compare my experience with the hateful, violent profanity-laden experience that Kate and Lindy West and all those gaming bloggers unwillingly shared.  The internet community feels a bit shakier to me now, less secure, resting on a fault line.   For now, I’m going to keep writing and posting and I know I will also continue thinking about this.  Thank you again, Kate, for demonstrating the positive power of words in your thoughtful, eloquent piece.

 Slice 15

It’s March 15th and it’s snowing.  I live in Maine and that just happens here.  I usually don’t mind snow in March and April because I know it’s ephemeral in nature.  However, this year, with feet of snow still waiting to melt, this snow seems like it’s adding insult to injury.  To top that off, it’s an indecisive snowfall—the flakes float and whirl, up, down, and around.  They’re not even doing anything!  I know—I’m contradicting myself here.  I really don’t want snow, but if it’s going to snow, it might as well snow, dang it! 

So, in a move to mitigate my snow-induced irritation, I head to the kitchen to make soup.  There’s nothing better than a pot of hot soup simmering on the stove on a snowy(-ish) day.  Today’s soup du jour will be Carrot Ginger.  This time, in a burst of daring,  I’m throwing a few parsnips in as well.  Take that,  Snow!  As I peel, slice, grate and chop, a pile of sliced carrot, onion and parsnip, vibrant orange and sunny white, grows on my scarred wooden cutting board.  I feel a bit better already.

Within half an hour, the aroma of simmering soup fills the house— Lots of onion with sweet overtones of carrots and parsnips, spicy ginger, and a nuance of fresh orange.  Inhaling that tempting, nutritious medley, I feel my mood slip into a gentler, happier place.

For the finishing touch, I puree the soup —softened vegetable chunks swirl into the broth in a delicious alchemy, transforming into a velvety amber elixir. 

Outside, the accumulated snow remains and those directionless snowflakes are still present.  Inside, I ladle a few spoonfuls of soup into the bowl and scatter a few pieces of scallion atop it all.  Ahhhh!  Soup’s on at my house. 

Day 14

The local Recycling Barn is always one of my Saturday destinations.  This morning, bag in hand,  I was gathering items to bring along:  newspapers, glass and plastic, a broken lamp, books, the wine glass I won at a Pampered Chef party last night, some random beaded necklaces, etc.  Some things are trash and some are waiting to be someone else’s treasure.  I picked up a pair of neon green sunglasses from my dresser and considered.  Last summer these were handed out at the Color Run 5K.  It was a beautiful day, perfect for running, and my first race with my 19 year old daughter.  Warm memories.  The glasses were a cute keepsake but honestly, they’d been gathering dust on my dresser since last summer.  Did I really need to keep these?  I hesitated.

Adeline and I after the Color Run–
I’d already had to remove the green sunglasses to use my prescription ones.

Another more recent memory stirs, this one from a discussion in my first grade classroom. We were talking about  Ezra Jack Keat’s classic, Peter’s Chair.  At the beginning of this story. Peter is upset because all his blue childhood things are being painted pink for his new baby sister.  At the end he’s happily painting his blue baby chair pink with his dad’s help.  After reading the story aloud I asked my students what happened to Peter in this story.  Why does he change?   A small hand shot into the air.  “I think Peter learned that he doesn’t need to keep things, like his blue chair, to keep his memories of being a baby.”  Out of the mouths of babes.   I threw the sunglasses into the bag.

At the Recycling Barn, I unloaded and emptied the recycling into the designated wooden containers.  Then I wandered over to the “shopping” area to drop off the neon green glasses and other items. I placed them on the shelves, setting the green glasses next to someone else’s discarded vase.  I love seeing what is resting on these shelves and imagining who will take each item.  There is an ever-changing mixture of things, ranging from new to should-be-discarded.  Over the years I’ve brought home mugs, games, baskets, a Melitta electric kettle, two boxes of new Williams-Sonoma bakeware, a pristine small step ladder, and always books, books, books. There is a huge book swap/library area and I never know what I’ll find, which is part of the allure.  Today in the kids’ section, I scored a great book to use as a mentor text in Writers’ Workshop next year.  After a cursory glance through the remaining stacks, I grabbed another book (this one for me) and then cut myself off.

The book swap at the Recycling Barn

Heading out, I paused at the door as two men, one younger and one middle-aged, moved a gigantic, hideous, plaid couch out of the building.  When I walked outside after them, I looked across the parking lot, curious to see what vehicle would hold this behemoth.  There it was, a small four-door car, back seats already brimming with plaid cushions.  I stopped for a moment to watch, wondering how this was going to work.  The two men aligned the couch with the car then paused.  After a brief conversation, they hoisted it upward, grunting, flipping it onto the roof. The face of the middle-aged man turned bright red with the effort and I worried momentarily about his cardiac health.  After a tense moment, with a bit of jostling, the sofa settled upside down atop the car, looking a bit like a canoe with ends overextending the length of the roof.  The men smiled, appearing well pleased with themselves and the older man’s face resumed a more healthy color.

I placed my books and leftover bags in the back of my car and reversed slowly in the soggy dirt parking lot.  As I drove away, two more people emerged from the long, low building.  I glanced over and saw a 6 or 7 year old boy walking out with his dad.  He was wearing a ball cap and a winter coat and on his face, he was sporting a neon green pair of sunglasses. 

Day 13

Recently, my 6-year old cousin, Bianca, was riding in the car with her mother.  A song came on the radio and she exclaimed,  “You need to download this song because it gives me a dance in my brain. Whenever I get a dance in my brain I just need the song.”

I loved the idea of a dance in my brain and began pondering. What makes my brain dance?   I’m not sure how Bianca intended this, but I like to think of it in a sort of Julie Andrews “My Favorite Things” way, but maybe mathematically squared.  Instead of what makes my heart sing, it’s what makes a dance in my brain. 

So, here’s a list of the top 10 things that put a smile on my face,  a bounce in my step and a dance in my brain (in no particular order):

1.  Having my family all together (sappy, predictable, but true)  — We don’t even have to be interacting but knowing      we’re all in the same building together warms my heart.

2.  The big, untidy pile of books by my bed, all waiting to be read

3.  Snow days (which create a downright boogie when called the night before!)

4.  Homemade soup bubbling on the stove on a cold winter day

5.  Discovering a “new-to-me” author (especially one with a long list of published books)

6.  Crossing something off a to-do list (If I forgot to put it on the list before I did it, I will add it afterward just for the          sheer pleasure of crossing it off!)

7.  Libraries and book stores

8.  Casual, inconsequential, friendly conversations with strangers after which I walk away thinking, “I like people.”

9.  Spring flowers–especially big, blowsy poppies nodding in my garden or the brilliant blue scilla that carpets the hill      to my house

10.  Words– writing, word games and word play (Will Shortz’ weekly Puzzle on NPR, The New York Times Sunday          Crossword Puzzle, Boggle, etc.)

What makes a dance in your brain?

Day 12

I live in Maine
where currently feet of snow
still blanket the earth
and winter can be long
especially in March or April
But I am thankful
to live in a  place
where Bean Boots
are acceptable footwear
just about anywhere
anytime
and people don’t rush
too much
and some counties have
only one traffic light.

I live in Maine
and commute to work
on roads that wind
through fields that glow with snow
or with the hazy green
of growing crops
depending on the season
and the sun rises
over living things
rather than concrete and asphalt
and bird song fills the morning
rather than sounds of moving cars
and there are no billboards
to block the sky.

I live in Maine
and every time I return
from a trip away
I take a deep breath and relax
Crossing the Piscataquis Bridge
I am home.

Day 11–At the end of a long day, I want to post and continue to meet the challenge, but I really had to yank some of this out.  Hoping for a better writing day tomorrow!

Late night last night
Forgot to set the alarm
Overslept—Oops!
Cat nosed me awake
Not altruistic,
She wants her breakfast.
Hurry! Hurry!
Rush! Rush!
Discovered why the mudroom
smells like cat pee.
Cleaned it up
threw away
a half dozen pairs of shoes.
Cat’s in the doghouse!
No time to brew coffee
Zipped into Starbucks
Busy, busy day
Reading
A dental visit for the class
Crazy Math assessment
(Don’t get me started!)
A lunch of quickly shoveled yogurt
Writing
End of the day—School’s out
Raced to my car
Visited the Share Center
Picked up buttons,
tubes, handles and more
Instrument building tomorrow
Home to homework
PD class begins tomorrow
Assignments already
videos to watch
an article to read
I only want to sleep
Remember that math assessment?
It needs to be corrected.
Grades due next week.
Comments to write
I am so tired!
Cat leaps up and
curls by my side, catnapping.
I’m jealous.
This is ridiculous.
Good night!

Tonight,  I raced from school to Portland to participate in a writing group/class.  Our focus this evening was on word choice.  I wrote the following poem responding to a prompt to write something related to celebrating life.

By the way, for some reason I can’t get the spacing right on this blog, so my stanzas won’t stay separate!  Grrrr!  That’s a problem to address on an evening when I have a bit more energy. For now,  as we say in my class, in lieu of apologizing for a roughly crafted piece, “I just wrote this.”  (In other words there’s still work to be done, but not if I’m going to meet the posting deadline tonight!)

On a blustery March day
She shrugs off the snow
Liberating her limbs
From the cold heavy burden
Stretching them toward the sky
The nearing sun warms her
Energizes her
Spring is coming.

On a drizzly day in April
She stands
Ghostly in the mist
A solitary sentinel
Feeling the rain trickle slowly
down her sides
Into the moist earth below
A long cool drink
of nourishing water
Spring is coming.

On a windy evening in May
Her branches tremble
In the crepuscular light
Softly shaking in the warm breeze
Buds emerging
Forming a halo of green
A verdant promise
Spring is coming.

June arrives
Buds swell and open
Small furled leaves appear
Fetal at first
Then full-fledged
Small serrated sails
in a blossom-scented breeze
They lift and sway
Susurrant
Casting shifting shadows below
Spring is here.

Day 9 Slice of Life Challenge

Is there a happier sound than someone else in the kitchen making dinner?  My husband is busy cooking and my two home-from-college-on-break kids and I lounge in the family room.  I’m mentally running through my day, wondering what to write tonight while they are reading—Joe Hill and Wendell Berry.  That choice pretty much sums up some significant differences in them:  Connor preferring Joe Hill—author of ghostly stories, horror and supernatural and Addie opting for Wendell Berry—farmer poet and environmental activist. I love that my kids love to read and I love to watch them reading.  I figure if my husband and I did nothing else right, we did instill this deep appreciation for words and books.

Kurt periodically calls out questions from the kitchen and I respond.

“Do we have garlic?” 

“On the door of the fridge.”

“Where’s the tomato paste?” 

“I bought a tube of it.  It should be in the pantry.”

“Oh, I need tomato puree, not paste—do we have any?” 

“Nope.”

Addie lies down and tucks her head against my thigh.

“I’m tired.” she murmurs and yawns. 

“How’s your ear?”  I ask.  She moves her hair away so I can see the piercing.  “What’s that called again?” 

“The targus,” she says. 

“Well, it doesn’t look as irritated anymore.”  She yawns again and I rub my hand over her hair, brushing it away from her ear and temple.  She’s warm, soft, and sleepy against my thigh.

Kurt clanks pots and pans in the kitchen and tantalizing smells drift into the room. 

Connor turns a page.

I begin to write.