March SOLC–Day 20

Hiss! Sizzle! Woosh!  Flame leaps off the grill and the nearby diners gasp and applaud. Two of our three children, Connor and Lydia, are heading back to school tomorrow and we wanted to spend the last evening together. We opted for Hibachi–a delicious, sensory explosion.  Flaming grills, juggled eggs, flashing blades, volcanic onions and vegetable missiles equal guaranteed fun.

The downside of hibachi is the noise of the grill and the potentially encroaching volume of the conversations of the assorted groups seated around it.  On the periphery of our group, I tried hard to focus, not wanting to hear the admiring Trump comments on my left (especially with sharp implements close at hand), and unable to fully hear our group’s conversations. With my son’s girlfriend with us, we were a group of 5. That seemed odd to me.  5 is our family number. Countless reservations, tickets, and orders for 5 at countless places over countless years. How can we be 5 when Adeline (my older daughter) isn’t here? She’s been studying in England since January and to me, her absence is palpable. Our group is incomplete: tonight 5 doesn’t equal 5.

“I miss Addie right now,” I said to Lydia, then paused. “Actually I miss her whenever I breathe,” I added, somewhat melodramatically.
“Well, then, don’t breathe,” suggested Lydia, helpfully. We both laughed and a quiet moment passed.
“I’m going to miss you, too,” I said.
“I know,” she said, “I don’t feel like I’ve had much time off.” She rested her head on my shoulder and tucked her arms around me. I leaned into her and kissed her forehead, relishing her affection, her proximity. I looked across the grill at my son, sitting between his girlfriend and his father. I couldn’t hear what was said but I watched him as they chatted, saw the expressions flit across his face. This was his final spring break. He’s graduating in May and won’t be living at home this summer. Possibly not ever again.

Hiss! Sizzle! Woosh!  The flames leapt into the air again, a bit blurry now. I blinked and deliberately shook off the mood, the melancholy. I leaned back into Lydia, into the conversation, determined to enjoy the time I had right now and count each moment as precious.

There will be plenty of time for missing later.

March SOLC– Day 19

My daughter took this photo of our home recently and showed it to me yesterday. I was struck by the  mood of the scene, the timelessness of it. I asked her to send it to me because I knew I wanted to write about it–something, sometime. I woke early this morning, remembering a chance encounter with a man who had a story to tell about our house.

Our house,
two hundred plus years old,
steeped in history,
sits at the top of a hill
in a small town
in Maine.

Once we met a man
who told us a story.
Many years ago,
long before it was ours,
he took a picture
of the house,
and he carried it with him
to fight in steamy jungles
in a gritty, thankless war.
Far across the sea,
he would grip the photo,
tightly,
stare at it,
and think,
“When I get home,
I’m gonna buy that house.”
It became a talisman,
the house.
The man survived
and he returned.
Though he never bought our house,
it carried him through
and it brought him home.

Sometimes when the mist curls
about the foundation,
our house shimmers,
auraed in a timeless light,
suffused with a soft glow
of stories,
of history.

And sometimes
I think of that man,
fighting for his life
in heavy, humid air
and tangles of vegetation,
dreaming of a house
two hundred plus years old
at the top of a hill
in a small town
in Maine.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

March SOLC–Day 18 and Poetry Friday Roundup

Every night I find my attention drawn away from whatever work I’m attempting to do toward the book waiting in my bedroom. I hear so many people say “Oh, I don’t have any time to read!” and I can’t fathom it. Reading is a deeply entrenched part of my nightly routine. Any time I’ve ever shared a bedroom, I’ve been besieged by whiney complaints. “Turn off the lights!” “Aren’t you done reading yet?” “I can’t sleep with the lights on.” Bravely I’ve soldiered on, through the missiles of discontent and annoyance. I have managed to acquire a number of book lights through the years and am now a bit more considerate about my light needs. But still, every night, I read. It may be for only a few minutes or it may be for hours.

And every night as I’m trying to work, before heading to bed, time seems to move faster. I get a bit anxious–The work is cutting into my potential reading time! I try to focus on grading or planning, but the clock is ticking (It may be digital but I swear it ticks!) and I know there is a finite amount of time. Tick. Tock. The more I work, the less time I have to read. I feel the tug of my book, pulling me away from work and toward the bedroom. It’s an ongoing nightly struggle!

The Nightly Struggle

Every evening
the struggle
commences.
My bag bulges reproachfully
with should-do’s and must-do’s
and Oh-wow-that’s-almost-overdue’s.
I dash off a few e-mails,
fine-tune some lesson plans.
I glance at the clock
then refocus on rewording
an e-mail that must be sent
tonight.
But, wait!
What’s that?
Is that a faint whisper
wafting from my bedroom
where my book lies
nestled
in a tangle of blankets
in my never-made bed?
Perhaps a soft rustling of pages?
I envision my book,
resting where it fell last night,
as my hands lost their grip
and my eyelids their battle
with sleep,
waiting,
dog-eared and patient,
reliable and inviting,
next to my pillow.
I could go to bed now
slide in between the covers
tuck the cat by my side
and the blankets about my neck
and open that book.
Early tomorrow I could
tackle the must-do’s
should-do’s and almost-overdue’s.
I glance at my Inbox.
I glance at the clock.
Tick.
Tock.
I glance at my bulging bag,
my mind already
halfway down the hall,
reaching toward the world
waiting enticingly
inside my book.
I head to bed,
abandoning the battlefield.
Victor or vanquished?
Who cares?
It’s early still and
I can read for hours.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

For more poetry today, head to the Poetry Friday Roundup hosted by Robyn Hood Black at Life on the Deckle Edge.

March SOLC–Day 17

When did kids start setting traps for leprechauns? This wasn’t a “thing” when I was young and my own kids didn’t do it. When did leprechauns become such a big deal? This year my first-grade class has gone leprechaun-mad!  I should probably have anticipated it, as in February the talk and anticipation had already begun.
“Mrs. Hogan. You know why I love March?”
“No, why?”
“Because the leprechauns come!”

On Monday after reading our weekly poem about a “lively little leprechaun,” conversations burst out all over the carpet.
“I caught a leprechaun once! I found him under a bush.”

“You can use a tissue box to catch leprechauns. It’s easy!”

“We set traps in Kindergarten and the leprechauns left sparkles and gold coins around the room!”

“Are we going to set leprechaun traps, Mrs. Hogan?” The volume dropped to zero as all heads turned in my direction.
“Um…no.”
“Oh.” A sea of crestfallen faces looked up at me. I felt set up. Gee, thanks, K teachers!

One boy piped up, contributing this longer and more mysterious story to a rapt audience, (and thankfully turning their attention from their buzz-kill teacher):

“Last year I set a trap with my brother. We put a box up and under it was a potato because leprechauns love potatoes. And we put a trail of shiny pennies to it. Cause they like gold. And the next morning…the trap was closed! But…” he paused dramatically,
“…we didn’t catch the leprechaun! And…”
another dramatic pause punctuated with a small giggle,
“he changed the potato into a… pear!”
His audience of spell-bound first graders gasped.
Clever parents! I thought.

And then to top it all off, at snack time one of my students approached me.
“Mrs. Hogan, do you want to see my leprechaun dance?”
“Well, of course I do!” I said.

She promptly launched into some sort of hybrid Celtic-Russian seizure dance with her long braids flying, legs kicking this way and that and her arms swirling about her head. After a moment, she stopped, breathless, pink-cheeked, and beaming.

“Wow!” I said, (As Kevin Henkes would say, “Wow. That was just about all she could say. Wow.”)”Where did you learn that?”

“Oh,”she replied, “I just made it up,”

You’ve got to love first grade!  I can’t wait to see what today brings!

March SOLC–Day 16

“Hey, Mom, look what I found,” my son called, entering the kitchen.  In his hand was a small green hard cover book. “It’s that book Addie wrote about Mrs. _______. I’d forgotten  all about it. You should check it out. It’s pretty funny.”

My son, Connor, is graduating from college in May and has been cleaning his room out. (I’m not ready to tackle that slice yet!) During this daunting task he has stumbled across a variety of treasures. This time it was the book that his younger sister had written and dedicated to him. This book was inspired by Connor’s deep dislike of one of his middle-school teachers. (She really wasn’t very pleasant.) He must have regaled Adeline with complaints and stories and she was clearly inspired. She titled her book Mrs. McNasty and published it with an Illustory kit that someone had given her. Here are a few highlights:

 
She made her claim and started supporting it with evidence.

She’d clearly mastered speech bubbles! And how about this ending?

And then the finale:

I have read this multiple times since Connor found it and it never fails to make me laugh. I love the illustrations and the speech bubbles and the ending cracks me up. In terms of writing, she’s got some good stuff going on. On the other hand, part of me is horrified that she wrote this about a teacher. I’m still not sure how in the world we agreed to send it off for publication.

March SOLC–Day 15

In my classroom Monday’s Morning Meeting greeting is always a Weekend Share.  Yesterday, as usual,  students chose the one thing they did over the weekend that they wanted to share with the class.
“I rode my bike down Plummer Mill Road.”
“I saw Zootopia and it was great!”
“We went out to get an ice cream cone.”
“My hens started laying eggs again.”
“Wow!  Did you notice how many of these things are early signs of spring?” I asked afterward.
“Yeah,” the kids agreed, nodding.
One chimed in, “It’s getting warmer, too!  That’s another sign!”
“And the leaves are starting to come out on the trees!” piped up another.
“Maybe I should put up a piece of chart paper and we can jot down any signs of spring we see, ” I said. ” What do you think?”
“Yay!” The kids agreed with enthusiasm. (They’re always excited to write on a chart.)

So, our chart is up and we’ve been sharing and jotting down some early signs of spring. As the class excitement has grown, I’ve realized this is a simple way to encourage my students to see their world and to notice the changes in it. We can then use these “noticings” when we launch into poetry next week. I think our first class poem might highlight these first signs of spring. Stay tuned!

March SOLC–Day 14

Years ago I came up with the term “Productive Procrastination.”  This is the term I use when I have a million things I really should do, but opt to do other things instead. Now, the critical difference from simple procrastination is that the things I choose to do instead must be productive;however, sadly, they still don’t eliminate anything from my To-Do list.  For example, if I have a stack of math assessments to grade, I might clean the bathroom instead. Or maybe bake cookies. Or weed in the garden. The math assessments are still looming when I finish, but I still got something productive done. It’s a bit twisted I suppose and it usually ends up ultimately adding to my stress level, but it’s what I do. On the plus side, there’s always the perk of a clean bathroom, a weeded garden, or cookies to eat. Yesterday, I was a master at Productive Procrastination.

Yesterday I should have: finished report card comments, finished entering grades, written a thank you note, organized tax papers to send to my accountant, and written lesson plans.

Here’s what I did instead:

 Hmmm….everyone’s home for spring break. I bet they’d enjoy a nice breakfast. It’s still early.
So I…

Whipped up some blueberry pancakes and bacon for breakfast

It’s going to be a crazy week. I should make sure I have something yummy for lunch. I’ll start working on comments after this.
So I…

Made a batch of spicy peanut noodles

Oh!  Look at this recipe. I forgot all about this salad. I could start grading science notebooks but if I make this now, I’d have two choices for lunch this week.
So I…

Threw together a wild rice edamame salad

Let’s see. If I throw potatoes in now to bake, I could make Twice-Bakeds for dinner. We haven’t had those in a long time!  I still have time to get some work done later.
So I…

Cooked up some Twice-Baked Potatoes

Wow!  Look at all this food. But there’s nothing sweet. Hmmmm….it’ll only take me a few minutes to make some granola bars. I could even bring some to work and everyone would be so happy!
So I…

Mixed up a batch of my all-time favorite granola bars

And then…

Wow!  It’s gorgeous outside. It would be a shame if I didn’t get outside today.  It’s supposed to rain later this week and I’m sure I’ll have renewed energy to tackle grades when I get back.
So I …

went for a quick run.

Did you notice the brilliant rationalization along the way? Can you tell how much I didn’t want to face report cards and taxes?  So, tonight I’m doomed!  But my lunches will be great this week!  That’s classic Productive Procrastination.

March SOLC–Day 13

Each year when sunlight is a rarity in our northern clime, the chickens stop laying eggs. I could use an artificial light, but I opt not to. My totally-unscientific theory is that perhaps they will lay eggs for longer if they have a winter respite. Last year,  prior to what we dubbed “The Fox Fiasco”, our chickens were free-ranging. It was hard to determine when the first egg was laid. We first knew they were laying again when we found a nest tucked into a corner of the barn overflowing with multicolored eggs.

This year the remaining chickens are cooped and it’s easier to keep an eye on things.  After the aforementioned Fox Fiasco, our flock is down to three aging chickens. (Don’t ask me how the fox knew which ones were young and tender, but they were clearly targeted!) I had retrieved two eggs over the course of last week, so I knew the girls were laying again. (Yay! Yet another sign of spring!)

Yesterday morning I hastened through my chicken chores. I slopped fresh water in their bowl, topped off the feeding tank and carried on our regular conversation. It goes something like this:

“Good morning, Chickies!  It’s a beautiful day! How are you today?”
“Bawk.”
“It looks like you were thirsty. Here’s some nice, fresh water.”
“Bawk.”
“Enjoy your day!  I’m just going to check for eggs.”
“Bawk! BAWK!” (I swear the pitch and volume changes on that response.)

I opened the door on the other side of the coop to check out the egg situation. And here’s what I found:

A bounty of beautiful eggs and a double yolker to boot! Can you see it?  What an eggs-cellent haul! After a few words of praise: (“What a good job, Chickies! You have been busy! I’m impressed!”), I gather up the eggs, head into the house to clean them off, and tuck them into their temporary cardboard nests. Spring is surely one step closer. Scrambled eggs anyone?

March SOLC–Day 12

The birds seem frisky this morning. Bluejays dance across the lawn, posturing, wings fluttering, involved in some sort of elaborate avian flirting. A pair of cardinals swoops from arbor to apple tree and then zooms off into azure skies. The slate-colored juncos flash their bi-colored fantail of feathers and swoop and swirl. Even the sun rose enthusiastically today, splashing brilliant red on the horizon, blazing through the winter-bare trees.  Everything seems more energetic.  Spring is coming!  My eyes are drawn to the window again and again. I am yearning to get outside and join in the festivities but sternly remind myself that I need to be disciplined. Spring is coming but so are report cards. Sigh.

March SOLC–Day 11

This poem was my attempt to have a bit of fun with one of the less than appealing symptoms of aging. (If you’re under 35 and/or male, you may not be able to relate.)

The Battle

There once was a hair on my chin
undetected when first it grew in
I noticed it there
Adrift in the air
And yanked it out with great chagrin.

Another one grew on my cheek.
(It happened in less than a week!)
I pulled that one too
without great ado
But with a full bellicose shriek.

It’s said that in some far-flung places
Facial hair adorns women’s faces
But I can’t sport a ‘stache
with elan or panache
I vow to remove any traces.

My tweezers now flash through the air
Extracting each invading hair
There is not a thing cute
’bout my face so hirsute
I battle with growing despair.

Each day my reflection as mirrored
Shows renegade hairs have appeared
My expression is grim
As I tweeze and I trim
Not resigned to displaying a beard.

I continue the gods to implore
to vanquish these whiskers galore
They’re more apt to dispatch
A peach-fuzzy soul patch
I win battles but never the war.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

For more poetry got to Poetry Friday Roundup at Irene Latham’s blog, Live Your Poem.