Fifty three members of my family (53!)  met and spent a long weekend together in the Poconos over the Fourth of July. It was a wonderful long-overdue weekend spent reconnecting with family and reminiscing. Throughout all the laughter and conversation, I was so aware of those who weren’t gathered with us, yet were so present. Here’s my work in progress.

Family Reunion
We gather at the family reunion
bursting with excitement,
greeting each other with laughter, hugs and
It’s been too long! 
How many years has it been? and
Oh, I can’t believe how much you’ve grown
to the younger ones–
the next generation.

One evening we “older” cousins mingle and share
reminiscences of summers at the cottage
on Lake Huron’s rocky shore.
Do you remember?
Poppa Pat reading Paddle-to-the-Sea ?
Gigi’s three bean salad?
Parcheesi and Chinese checkers played
on the screened-in porch?
And the porch was always gritty with sand!
Yes! And upstairs, the walls didn’t reach the ceiling!
Wasn’t there a hammock?
I think there was a hammock…
Do you remember?
Each of us contributing
our own recollections
to create a larger, interconnected whole.
Oh! Oh! I remember that!
Our smiles warm and our memories bloom.
We all came from two.
Only two.

In between us
the ghosts linger.
In my sister’s hand, cupped beneath her chin
I see my grandmother.
In a deep laugh from across the room,
I hear the echoes
of my grandfather’s booming baritone.
Each time I look at my cousin
or at his three daughters,
I see his wife’s face.
Their grief is so fresh it pulses
beneath the revelry.
And instead of three brothers hosting
this boisterous family gathering,
there are two.
Only two.

Ghosts mingle at the family reunion
threading bittersweet through the joy.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

If you’re interested in reading more poetry, visit Mary Lee’s blog, A Year of Reading, for this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup.

I’ve just returned from attending ILA16 and my mind is swimming with thoughts, impressions, fledgling ideas, etc. I have so much to process! I didn’t even realize that it was Tuesday until the Slice of Life e-mail popped up in my Inbox. Yikes! My Teachers Write effort will have to serve double duty today. It’s not precisely a slice but it does have some autobiographical roots.

Today’s Teachers Write exercise comes from Megan Frazer Blakemore. (She is one busy woman, as I just enjoyed her great presentation at ILA16 on Saturday and know she was signing her newest book, The Firefly Code, there as well.) In her post she shared a wonderful quote from Charlotte Zolotow, “Many fine writers can write about children but are unable to write for them.… The writers writing about children are looking back. The writers writing for children are feeling back into childhood.” Ms. Blakemore invited us to feel back into our own childhoods and write a scene from a cafeteria, autobiographical or not. Who knew reminiscing about childhood cafeterias could pack an emotional whallop!?  Here’s my effort.

Jen stood in the hallway and looked into the sunlit cafeteria through the floor to ceiling windows. Groups of kids sat around large tables, eating and laughing. Occasionally someone opened a nearby door to enter or exit and lunchtime sounds spilled out –the clinks and clacks of trays and utensils, bursts of laughter, and a general roar of conversation. Then, as the door slowly closed, the scene muted again.

A group of girls brushed by her, bubbling with conversation, as they opened the door. “Oh,” said one of them casually as they passed her, “Hey, Jen.” Then the girl turned back to her group and they entered the cafeteria.

“Hi,” Jen whispered to the closing door.

Her stomach growled and she wrapped her arms about her waist. The straps of her bag dug into her thin shoulder. Come on, Jen,  she told herself, just go in and sit down. There’s plenty of room.  She eyed a table that held a mix of kids from her Lit class. There were a few seats there. She took a deep breath and stepped toward the door, her hand reaching out toward its handle. Inside the cafeteria the group of girls bee-lined toward the table she’d been eying, quickly filling those empty spaces. Jen’s hand fell.

She shrugged her bag further up onto her shoulder, feeling the sting of the groove worn by its weight. Turning quickly, she stepped away from the cafeteria and headed toward her favorite carrell in the library. I wanted to read anyway, she thought, ignoring the empty pit in her stomach and angrily blinking her eyes against the prickle of tears.

I’m participating as much as I can in Teachers Write this summer. Yesterday’s quick-write exercise came from author, Nancy Castaldo. She offered two facts and challenged participants to expand one of them into a scene. I chose “Deciduous trees lose their leaves in the fall.” I didn’t precisely follow her intended exercise, but I did end up with this poem. It’s doing double duty for Poetry Friday.

Fall approaches
Days grow short
Nights cool and
hints of frost whisper lacy patterns
onto tightly closed windows.
Within the leaves
of deciduous trees
change is happening.
With diminishing sun,
Chlorophyll yields
its dominant presence
and the others emerge–
pigments of yellow, orange, and red.
Leaves transform.
What once was hidden
is now revealed.
The calls of migrating birds
echo in the crisp air.
Below them
wood smoke drifts from chimneys
in lazy columns
and a brilliant spread of colors
carpets hills and valleys.
Beech trees glow yellow,
then fade to a pale orange
Maples fly scarlet banners
against azure autumnal skies
Dogwoods show off their deep red raiment
and sugar maples dazzle the eye
with a mixed palette
of orange, red, and green.
As summer recedes and
fall deepens its hold on the land,
the cool winds blow
colorful leaves
tumble
and fall
Nature’s confetti

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

If you’re in the mood for more poetry, go on over to the Poetry Friday Roundup, hosted this week by Katie at Logonauts.

Through morning’s bright dew

One gleaming trail meanders

tracing night-time travels

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

To enjoy more poetry, go to The Opposite of Indifference where Tabatha Yeatts is posting this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup.

Early each summer I pick strawberries and make jam. The timing isn’t ever ideal as strawberry season in Maine tends to peak as school ends and the onslaught of summer activities and visitors hits. Jam making is, however, one of my cherished rites of early summer and enjoying home-made strawberry jam in the midst of winter is a big payoff for a day’s work.

Yesterday morning I suddenly realized that it was my first and last opportunity to pick strawberries and make jam. My kids were already busy, so I set off to pick on my own. When I arrived at the farm, the strawberry fields were already generously dotted with other pickers. I filled a wooden trug with my stained green quart baskets, wandered out into a likely looking area and began looking for berries. The sun was hot on my head and shoulders, and initially, berries were few and far between. I overheard a number of people comment that the picking had been so much better last week. It was slow going at first, but soon I fell into an easy rhythm and relaxed into the task. I moved along the rows, enjoying the sweet scent and the feel of warm, ripe berries slipping from my hands into the baskets. A slight breeze kept the bugs to a minimum, and snippets of conversations rose and fell around me.

“You are the best strawberry-picker I’ve ever seen!” said an admiring grandmother to her young granddaughter. “Isn’t she the best, PopPop?”

“Never seen better,” her grandfather agreed.

“Only four years old and she’s already picked two quarts,” her grandmother announced.

“Look, PopPop! Here’s another one,” the child chimed. I looked up and saw her. She held her hand outstretched toward her grandfather. Her long russet braid hung down her back and tendrils of delicate hair framed her face, which was lit by a brilliant grin.

“Well, look at the size of that one!” he said, grinning back at her.

“…and not a drop of strawberry juice on her clothes!” continued her grandmother. “Have you ever seen a 4 year old who could pick berries like that? You know, she doesn’t even remember picking last year, but she was only 3 then.”

They chatted in this admiring vein for quite some time, their granddaughter basking in the sunshine, her achievements and their approval. I continued picking, listening to the soft thud of juicy strawberries mounding in my basket and the soft murmurs of their conversation.

Eventually I stood and stretched, easing the kinks from my lower back, and hoisted my laden basket to head to the farm stand. I paid up and headed toward home for a full day of jam-making. It’s hot, sticky work but oh, so rewarding. There’s nothing like the satisfaction of transforming those sun-warmed ruby-red fruits into jar after jar of bottled jam and then stacking them neatly in my pantry–Essence of summer captured in my cupboard.

On some cold, dark day this winter, I’ll pull a softly glowing jar of ruby jam from my pantry. I’ll open it up and inhale deeply.  And for just a moment, I’ll transcend that moment and relive this field and this day and the warmth of summer sun on my skin. I’ll hear the echoes of the loving conversation and remember the earthy and sweet scents of the strawberry fields, and hear again the soft plops of the berries piling up in my quart baskets. I’ll think nostalgically of the steamy sweet-smelling kitchen and the sticky pots and pans and that magical transformation from berry to jam.

I don’t know if my fellow-pickers made jam with their strawberry bounty, but I like to think so. I like to imagine a day many months from now and a young girl in a far-off kitchen with windows framing the cold winter scene outside.  I can almost see her standing there with her open jar of strawberry jam and a dreamy smile on her lips. Jam magic.

Once I was their world.
I cradled them in my arms;
they nursed at my breast.
Kissing their downy heads,
I was the good fairy,
raining blessings upon them,
weaving a spell
of my hopes and dreams
for their lives,
my index finger clenched
in their small, tight fist.

I thought they would never let go.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

To enjoy more poetry, go to Random Noodling for this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup.

One of my biggest reasons for hesitating to move up to teach 4th grade was the realization that I’d have to clean out my classroom. (Those who know me and have seen my classroom can vouch for the legitimacy of this concern!) I’ve now spent approximately 10 hours sorting through files, stacks of books, materials, etc. I have hours to go as I haven’t even touched my storage area yet!  I’m slightly horrified by the amount of paper I’ve discarded in the recycling bin. Not to mention the material resources wasted (Oh, I’m so sorry, trees!), each paper held creative energy, thought or intention–now tossed with less and less hesitation into the trash!

While looking through some old files, I found a poem I’d written for my class years ago. (I believe I was channeling Dr. Seuss at the time.) Since cleaning time has cut into slicing time, I thought I’d share this “found” poem today. It needs a bit more tinkering, but needs must!

The Shoe-Stealing Glizard

The Shoe-Stealing Glizard is a rare one to see
He sneaks about sneakily, trying to be
as quiet as snowflakes as he creeps ’round the town
searching for footwear without making a sound.
He takes red shoes and blue ones and big ones and small.
The size doesn’t matter, not one bit at all.
He assembles them into a towering stack
Then plops each in his maw– a leathery snack.
He loves every morsel: the sole, tongue and laces
guzzling them greedily, leaving no traces.
Is your wet sneaker stinky and dripping with gunk?
To him, that’s a treat, a delicious Ker-plunk!
Into milk he will dip it and then with a slurp
He’ll gobble it up with a boisterous burp.
If you’ve looked high and low for your shoe or its mate
And they’re not to be found–it might be too late.
It could be the case, I’m most sorry to say,
that the Shoe-Stealing Glizard has headed your way.

Molly Hogan (c)2016

And then here’s a more recent treasure that I couldn’t resist sharing–this heart-warming card from a student. (Please note my fabulous earrings!) I will certainly miss teaching first grade!

In the cottage garden
early in the morning
tendrils of fragrance
weave invisible aromatic paths
The moist morning air
eddies and swirls
with the weight
of heady rosa rugosa
overlaid with a hint of peony
and whiffs of wild phlox
from the bounty of blossoms
fireworking in the shadows
across the yard
Ripe with promise
lush with scent
it brushes the earth
with the softest caress
Redolent

Oh, to capture this sweet air in a bottle
to unstopper and savor
on those sterile, dark days
in the depths of winter
when fragrance seems leached
from air that lies
brittle, hard and cold
over the frozen earth

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

For more poetry, visit Carol’s Corner!

I didn’t expect it. It was early Sunday afternoon. After a final four intense hours of work, I had just left school and my report cards were done. Finis! Complete!  With almost 48 hours to spare!  The weight was off my shoulders and I practically skipped out of the building and into my car, singing all the way. About ten minutes later, entering the grocery store, I was still slightly giddy with joy.

I walked into the produce section and a pyramid of gleaming scarlet fruit immediately caught my eye — cherries! Oh! I should get some cherries. Connor loves them. And then I remembered. Connor had moved out this weekend. I didn’t need to consider him as I shopped. I’d sent him off with some staples from our pantry just yesterday morning and now…Well, now he was no longer on my grocery list.

Oh.

In the past 2-3 months, my son has gotten (finally!) his driver’s license, graduated from college, bought a car, got a job, signed a lease for his first apartment, and moved in with his girlfriend. That’s a lot of life changes. I know they’re really about him, but I get caught up a bit in the turbulent wake.

On Sunday I stood in the grocery store and realized- Everything’s changed. I’d been expecting this for years now. Freshman year. Spring break. First summer. There had already been long stretches of time where I wasn’t shopping for him. But really, he’d still been around, part of the family planning, his preferences a staple on my grocery list, his return just a holiday or long weekend away. This was no longer true. It was a startling realization. Disconcerting.

After a few misty moments, I slowly passed the cherries. I picked up some avocados for Adeline and then saw the stacked packets of pistachios—Nope. I don’t need those.  I walked to the back of the store and passed by the deli—No ham and sliced cheese today. In the cracker aisle, I tossed in a box of lightly salted rice crackers for Lydia. We won’t need as many Ritz crackers anymore. Meandering down the juice aisle, I grabbed some cranberry juice and eyed the rainbow-colored Gatorade bottles. No need to consider which flavor to buy this week. I continued my shopping, passing cheese sticks, yogurt drinks and bags of chips, and collecting other items still necessary to our household.

Connor’s well and truly on his own now. I know this is how it should be and I’m proud of him and happy for him. But part of me is mourning. I know this is natural; I just didn’t expect it to hit me in the produce section. Another writer could probably find a rich metaphor in this grocery store moment–something about food, love, nourishment. All I know is that I checked out with a slightly emptier cart, feeling more than slightly bereft.

Through the Open Window

Through the open window
I watch him,
with his soft, tawny fur,
and long ears limned
in dawn’s light.
He hops forward,
pausing on the dew-laden lawn,
poised on his haunches.
His nose twitches,
ears flicker
once
twice
His gaze meets mine.

A recent visitor,
initially unexpected
(for rabbits, or hares,
are rarities here),
I now anticipate his arrival.
He comes early
most days,
touring the gardens
and no one else sees him,
for we are both
solitary
creatures of morning
with an affinity for soft light
and tranquility.

Today we regard each other
solemnly
for a long moment
in the flush promise
of a spring morning,
greeting the day
together
through the open window.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

To read more poetry, go to Poetry Friday Roundup at Beyond Literacy Link.