March 2018 SOLC–Day 29
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

Mainers are a hardy breed. The sun comes out in winter and shorts appear. It’s slightly insane. Below is one of my favorite early spring beach pictures. Outside of the camera shot, visitors’ attire ranged from full Arctic to flip flops, shorts and T-shirts. Clearly the parents of these two intrepid kids are masters of compromise. Their children are suitably attired up top for warmth and from the waist down for a bit of spring fun, Maine-style! This isn’t an uncommon sight. After seemingly-endless, dark winters, we’re all too ready to throw off the shackles of heavy socks, boots and long underwear.

Once the temperatures start to edge up, there’s an ongoing coat battle with fourth graders. The sun comes out and they do NOT want to wear a coat to recess. Even though it’s 30 degrees with a 15 mph wind. Often I check the temperature or the wind chill to bolster my “Yes, you have to wear your coat” position.

Yesterday, as we were lining up, a staff member stopped by. Knowing he monitored recess each day, I asked,  “What’s it like outside?”

“It’s nice,” he enthused. “I think it’s close to 50 now!”

His words rippled through the room, setting off a tsunami of joyful whoops and cries.

“50!”

“Woohoo! 50!”

“It’s 50 out!”

Our line disintegrated into happy chaos as kids ripped off their coats and dashed out of line to throw them with wild abandon back into their cubbies.

“Did you hear that!? It’s 50 out! You don’t have to take a coat!”

Their smiles were as dazzling as the spring-ish sunshine.

We managed to reorganized into a sort-of line and walk down the long hallways without totally disgracing ourselves. We pushed open the doors to nirvana, aka the playground, and the kids burst through, a geyser of energy and enthusiasm.

C. rushed out, threw her arms up in the air and yelled, “It’s stinkin’ 50 degrees!”, then raced off over the snow piles to play.

I had to laugh. Only in Maine does 50 degrees generate such excitement.

March 2018 SOLC–Day 28
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

I’m turning back to a tried and true format as time for slicing/writing gets pinched by a crazy parent-teacher conference week.

Currently, I’m …

March 2018 SOLC–Day 27
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

Parent teacher conferences are in full swing and our school is buzzing with activity until late in the evening. Last night while waiting for a student and parent, I was straightening up the room and getting ready for today. Across the hall I saw a third grader standing with her Scholastic Book Fair swag clutched in her arms. I stepped out to say hello and she held up her poster for me to see.

This isn’t the precise poster, but you get the idea!

“Whoa, A!” I said. “What are those?”

“Piranhas,” she announced.

“That is one scary looking poster, ” I said. “Where are you going to put it?”

She shrugged. “My sister’s one.”

I paused, uncertain what she meant, then asked, “Your sister’s one what?”

“A piranha,” she replied.

“A… piranha?” I repeated.

“Yes,” she said, simply.

Her mom, hovering nearby, smiled and interjected in a patient tone, “A., your sister is not a piranha.”

I had the feeling that this was not a new conversation.

“She likes to bite,” A stated firmly.

“Well,” her mom continued, glancing at me, somewhat flustered, “she doesn’t really bite. She just pretends to.”

“She’s a piranha,” A repeated.

“She doesn’t even have her front teeth!” her mom said.

I laughed, though I noticed that A. did not look amused or convinced. We talked a bit more about this and that. Then A. and her mom turned to head down the hall and out the door, and I turned to head into my classroom.

A. must have handed her Book Fair booty to her mom, because I suddenly felt her arms wrapped around my waist.

“Good night, Mrs. Hogan.”

“Good night, A.”

She dashed off down the hallway again to reclaim her poster and books. I walked into my classroom.

 Oh, I do hope A is in my class next year!

March 2018 SOLC–Day 26
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
twowritingteachers.org

Note: I am not an artist, so please excuse any vague or inaccurate terminology in this post.

I’ve gone off on a bit of an Andrew Wyeth tangent this month. On a recent Sunday, after learning about an exhibit of his drawings at the Farnsworth Museum, I convinced my husband that he really wanted to drive up to Rockland, Maine with me. To my surprise, he didn’t mind the idea of the long drive up the coast to the museum, and off we went.

Andrew Wyeth, Her Room, 1963

Less than two hours later we were standing in a gallery looking at Wyeth’s painting, Her Room.  It’s a beautiful painting and worthy of its place of honor on the gallery wall. But what really enriched the experience for us was the array of sketches, drawings and studies that hung on the other walls of the room. They offered a window into Wyeth’s process of creating this painting, documenting some of the many steps.

Wyeth wrote notes to himself on his drawings. This says “warm gray, remember this”

As I walked through the gallery, my thoughts turned again and again to writing–specifically to my writer’s notebook. In no way am I comparing the level of my writing to Andrew Wyeth’s painting, but to me it seems that he followed a similar process with his drawings. Where I use my notebook to write a rough draft, to try out a new idea or form, to experiment and play with words, etc, Wyeth used these sketches, studies, and drawings to help him enter into the world of his subject.  Focusing on one thing after another. Playing with approaches.

In particular, I was intrigued by the partially painted drawings, with parts roughly sketched and others fully painted. They seemed alive somehow, coming into being before my eyes. They reminded me of notebook entries where some parts emerge richly from my pen and others are merely an outline to return to at a later time. Wyeth even wrote notes to himself on some of them, like “warm gray, remember this”.

Together, these “rough drafts” offered insight into the process of the artist at work and into the final piece. What a fascinating exhibit!

Working on the doorknob

A close up: While studying the doorknob to get it just right, Wyeth realized he could see his own reflection in it. He included it in the finished piece.

March 2018 SOLC–Day 25
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

“Molly!”

I turned awkwardly in the crowd, and there was Cindy–friend, colleague and fellow slicer (Mainer in Training). We were in the midst of hundreds and hundreds of people gathering for the March for Life in Portland, Maine. And yet she’d seen me. Amazing! Both of us were on our own, feeling that it was important to add to the numbers, to make a statement with our presence and participation. As the crowd grew, we chatted, talked about our shared concerns, read signs together and marveled at the turnout.

After a while, at some invisible signal, a cheer rose up and the crowd surged forward, banners high. We marched down Congress Street with thousands of others. A sea of peaceful protest.

Why did I march? I marched for our children because I am heartsick over the growing number of lives lost and our inaction as a nation. I marched because I hoped that a show of solidarity would elicit a meaningful national response and common sense changes in gun control laws. I marched because I’m angry and disgusted that politicians have abdicated their responsibilities. I marched because I was determined to stand up against the insanity.  Because I can’t accept that our country’s primary response to gun violence in schools is to have lockdown drills and bulletproof backpacks. Or armed teachers. I marched because I don’t want to have another child say to  me: “You know why I did so good during the drill? I was really quiet ’cause I didn’t want anyone to shoot me.”

As we marched past the First Parrish Church,  bells began to toll, loud and clear in the chilled air.

“Are they ringing because of the time?”

We checked. It was 10:46. No, it wasn’t the time. The bells were tolling in solidarity with the marchers. The clarion call of those bells rising into the air above us packed an emotional wallop. Tears rushed to my eyes.

After I blinked them away, the next thing I saw was a young child in a stroller. A sign was strapped in before her. “Will I Be Next?” it asked.

I couldn’t take a picture.

I marched.

March 2018 SOLC–Day 24
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

The beauty of the pink-tinged horizon tugged me toward the bay. I looked at the clock in the car. I still had time. I turned right to head down to the water for a moment of serenity, to  welcome the day with the sunrise.

When was the last time I did this? I wondered, as I drove. Greeting dawn by the water is a lovely, peaceful way to start the day. With the bay only a mile from home, I used to do it quite frequently. What changed? Why did I stop taking these few extra minutes?

Then I realized what had happened. Last spring a woman died by suicide there. Self-inflected gunshot. A man discovered her body early in the morning. When my husband told me, I remember thinking, “That could have been me finding her.” And then I felt guilty for thinking of myself. I can’t imagine the pain that woman was in and the horror that man experienced when he found her body. But still, I thought about the what ifs and that painful scene stained the place in my mind. Tainted its serenity. I had been back to the park since, but never in the morning.

So yesterday morning, I pulled into the parking lot. Color seeped up from below the horizon, silhouetting tree branches. Ice still covered the water in sheets of white, traversed by occasional rifts and cracks.  On a small open area beneath the bridge, black and white birds paddled and swirled in the current.  It’s a beautiful place.

I thought again about that woman. What drove her to make that desperate, final choice?  Why here? And I thought about that man. How has his life been impacted by that early morning discovery? I thought about all the places we walk through or drive past, oblivious to their physical and emotional history, both distant and more recent. I thought about how I had unconsciously avoided coming to the park in the morning for almost a year, even though I had experienced such quiet joy there so many times.

What’s the heart of this moment? I had hoped writing about it would help me sort through my feelings, but I’m still figuring it out. But stepping out of the car yesterday morning, I made a conscious decision to resume my early morning visits. I will remember the pain of others, but still, I will allow the lure of a pink-tinged sky to pull me down to the water. I will take the time to watch the sunrise, to rejoice in the optimism inherent in dawn. And I will be thankful for the peace and serenity of this beautiful place.

March 2018 SOLC–Day 23
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

There were quite a few funny moments at school yesterday. I thought I’d share some of my favorites here.

1. A student was trying to remind the class about the details of a read aloud scene with an antelope shooting:
   “No, remember,” he said, “he didn’t shoot the cantaloupe.”
2. I circulated through the room as students worked on a complicated math problem. They were chatting with partners, actively engaged in trying to solve the problem. X called me over.
   “Mrs. Hogan, look at what I did.”
   His math page was covered with numbers and diagrams, evidence of a lot of hard work. His answer was way, way off.
   “Wow, you really dug into this problem, X,” I said.  I can see you’ve been working hard. So now that you’ve got an answer, it’s time to think about whether it’s reasonable or not.”
   X. looked up at me. “Mrs. Hogan,” he said, “thinking isn’t my forte.”
3. During that same lesson, students were working on a number story involving egg packaging and extra eggs. I asked the class, “Is it possible that Elbert might get no eggs for breakfast some days?”
   A student responded, “Yes.”
   I followed up. “Can you explain why?”
   “Well, sure,” he said, seriously. “he won’t get any eggs if the hens stop laying.”
4.  And then there was this cafeteria conversation:
   “A, you need to eat up. We’re about to dismiss tables, and you still have a lot of your lunch left.”
   She poked her chicken with her fork. “What’s that?” she asked.
   “You mean the chicken?” I asked.
   “Yeah, this part. It looks funny. What is it?” she pointed to the ribs on the underside of the chicken breast.
   “Oh,” I said. “Those are bones.”
   She looked at me, looked at her chicken again and then turned to the child next to her.
   “E. you were right,” she whispered in a shocked tone. “They are bones!”

Hope some laughter lights your day today!

Sometime not too long ago, I came across the enchanting poem “Emily Dickinson and Elvis Presley in Heaven.” I’m not sure if someone shared it on the Roundup or if I stumbled across it elsewhere, but I liked it so much that I printed it out and tucked it into my writing notebook, where I stumbled across it again today. (Update–Tabatha Yeatts linked to this poem last fall in this post.)

Who is this Hans Ostrom? I wondered. This poem is so quirky and engaging. What else has he written? A quick google search revealed that Hans Ostrom is an accomplished professor, writer, and scholar. I also discovered the poem below which appealed to me no less, but quite differently, than Emily and Elvis had.

“How to Write A Poem: A Poem”
Hans Ostrom

First, clear the area of critics.
Next, grab an image or a supple
length of language and get going.
It’s all you now. Mumble, sing,
murmur, rage, rumble, mock,
quote, mimic, denounce, tell,
tease. Recall, refuse, regret,
reject. Dive, if you dare, into
psychic murk. Down there grab
the slick tail of something quick.
….(click on the link to read the poem in its entirety)

This poem ends with the lines:
“…when and if
in doubt, remember: what you want
to be is to be writing. ”

And if you’re looking for poetic inspiration to kickstart your own writing, make sure to visit poetic dynamo Laura Purdie Salas at her blog, Writing the World for Kids. She’s sharing information about her newest book, Meet My Family, and hosting this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup.

March 2018 SOLC–Day 22
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

I think the mice are yearning for spring and warmer weather, too. Just last night I found evidence of small critter visitors in a kitchen drawer. (Use your imagination.)

“Kurt, the mice are back,” I sighed. (I’ve written recently about another mouse discovery here.)

After some consultation (and cleaning out the drawer, scrubbing everything down with Lysol, etc.) we realized we couldn’t use poison. We have these nifty little blocks we’ve used in the past. They are my preferred don’t-have-to-see-it-hear-it option. However, with two young and energetic cats around, we feared poisoned mice could be consumed, leading to poisoned cats.  Not ideal. There were a few left-over mouse traps in the closet, but those gross me out. Unfortunately, we couldn’t find our cute little Have–a–Heart mouse hotel, so I made a mental note to stop and pick one up tomorrow. Game plan set.

Later that night, Kurt announced suddenly from the kitchen, “Ready and set!”

“What is?”

“The traps. I set one in the drawer.” (Note–Kurt is always messing with the game plan.)

I sighed, and crossed the visit to the hardware store off my mental list.

________________________________________________

This morning, I walked into the kitchen and my eyes were drawn to the drawer like magnets.

Is there anything there? No, don’t look! Don’t look! I told myself firmly. You don’t want to see. Kurt will come down later and check.

I pushed the button to start my coffee, and walked over to the fridge to get my OJ. My eyes drifted back to the drawer.  No!  I bustled about the kitchen, going through my regular morning routine, fighting the urge to peek, because I really, really didn’t want to see.

Thump–Rustle–Thump

I started. What was that? Unsure where exactly the noise came from, I looked around to find the cats. (They are always a great explanation for unexplained noises, but neither was in sight.) My eyes drifted unwillingly to the drawer.

Rustle–Tap–Thump

Ew! The sound was definitely coming from the drawer.  Don’t look! Don’t look!

Thump–rustle–RUSTLE–THUMP–THUMP

It was getting louder! I grabbed the coffee pot, sloshed some in my cup and scampered out of the kitchen, my imagination working overtime. What’s in there? Why isn’t it making squeaking noises? Is it trapped by the head and frantically thrashing about trying to escape? If it were caught by the tail (my preferred imagination of how these traps work), wouldn’t it be squeaking? Is it blocked from escaping because of the trap? Ahhhhhhh! 

I feel like such a coward, but I just can’t look. I have no idea how to spring the trap and I’m certainly not going to finish off the mouse. My options are limited. I choose the ostrich-approach — don’t look.

Unfortunately, I can’t help hearing and I can’t avoid the kitchen on a school day. Each time I go back in to refill my coffee, I keep my eyes firmly on the drawer and give it a wide berth, moving quickly past it.  I’m pretty sure the drawer is not going to fly open and launch an angry homicidal mouse as I walk by, but I’m cautious by nature. Why risk it?

As I write this in the family room now, I can hear the thumping and rustling continuing periodically in the kitchen.  Needless to say, this is not a relaxing morning–for either the mouse critter or for me! Then, at my feet I hear a moist, crunching noise. What!?! I look down. Ironically, the cat is chewing avidly on her plastic catnip mouse.

Maybe I’ll leave for work early…

THUMP!

March 2018 SOLC–Day 21
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

Hope is the thing with feathers
∼Emily Dickinson

Outside the flash of a bullet of fur on a deadly trajectory caught my eye.

Oh, no!

I saw her land on four paws on the snowy bank beneath the feeders. My heart sank.

Did she get another bird?

I grabbed the door handle and raced outside.

“Juuuuniper,” I called.

She turned to look at me, and the two small bells at her neck jingled merrily. Two limp wings protruded from either side of her mouth. A fan of grey and white tail feathers covered her chin.

Oh, no! A little junco. 

She glanced at me, then turned to walk away, her prize firmly clenched in her jaws.

“Juney,” I called, coming up behind her. She slowed a bit. “Come here, Juney girl.”
Take it slowly. Don’t spook her.

The wings and tail were ominously still, no flutter of feathers, no evident struggle.

“Come here, sweet kitty.” I crooned, approaching her slowly. Slowly.

She stopped and looked back at me. “Good girl,” I said, coming nearer. I knelt and reached out, as if to pet her. She leaned toward me, anticipating an affectionate rub. Quickly but gently, I grasped either side of her head. Inserting my fingers in the corners of her mouth, I pushed. She wriggled to get away, lean muscle under silken fur, but I held on.

Will it work? Is it already too late?

“Come on, Juney. Open up,” I sing-songed.

I continued to apply steady pressure, and her mouth slowly began to open. A moment passed. I pushed a little more, and finally, her jaw dropped open.

In a whirling flash, with a scatter of feathers, the junco soared into the afternoon sky. It flew toward the barn, wheeled around the corner and disappeared from sight. A miracle of flight and feathers.

My heart rebounded.