March SOLC–Day 10
I hesitated about sharing this and still have some reservations. I do NOT want to wade into political waters and I tried hard not to do so. But I also know that it’s important to write about those things that linger in our hearts and minds. And what I heard on the radio yesterday has lingered. So, I’m taking a deep breath and posting.

Though I vote regularly, I hate politics. I’ve given up listening to the radio on my morning commute and picked up a pile of audiobooks at the library. Rather than tuning into the unrelenting coverage of coarse and vulgar political discourse, I’ve chosen to listen to a thriller featuring an Israeli assassin group. Really it seems much more civilized. But tension was building in my thriller this morning, I was getting stressed anticipating the imminent violence and having to lower the volume to “skim” through those scenes, so I clicked it off and turned back to NPR. I tuned in just in time to listen to a broadcast about some recent basketball games in the midwest, the so-called Heartland of America. Sounds innocent enough, right? In retrospect, I should have continued to listen to my audiobook.

Here’s the scene. Two midwest towns. Two high school basketball games. Two disturbing incidents. Four days and 400 miles apart. Both games involved one team that was heavily minority and another that was not. During one game one team brandished photos of Donald Trump and chanted “Trump! Trump!” and “Build a Wall! Build a Wall!” at their heavily Hispanic opponents.  During the other game, there were no signs, but “Trump! Trump! Trump!” was shouted over and over at the minority team.

I am bone-deep disturbed at the image of high school students chanting hatefully and using a presidential candidate’s name to intimidate and insult. Is this what today’s youth is learning from our political process?  I am appalled that political candidates have been modeling divisive, argumentative and crass interactions rather than demonstrating how to create a meaningful, civilized dialogue. Where is their sense of responsibility?

My colleagues and I often remark that the dialogue in America’s political arena would not be acceptable in our classrooms. As I pulled into the school parking lot today, deeply disturbed by what I had heard, I was struck again by about how important the work is that we do with young children everyday.  We work so hard to teach our students to get along, to accept each other, and to solve disagreements respectfully.  We teach tolerance and empathy. We say, “You don’t have to be friends, but you can still be friendly.”

My school has invested a great deal of time and energy into developing a cohesive school-wide approach to peer-to-peer aggression and to building a positive culture that supports and includes all students. “We don’t do that here!” is our school’s refrain when faced with inappropriate behavior, like persistent taunting, name-calling, and intimidation/threats. (And, yes, there are protocols and rubrics in place when that is not sufficient.) With scenes like those basketball games and recent political events in mind, I want to stand up and proclaim “We don’t do that here in America!”  But sadly, right now, it appears that we do.

March SOLC–Day 9

Circulating around my classroom during Readers’ Workshop, I stopped to listen in to a partnership of three.

Sitting in the middle, J was reading smoothly and then stopped suddenly at the word “celery”, her brow furrowed.
She reread, “He chopped the …..” She frowned, concentrating.
“Kel..ur.. eye? Kelureye?” She shook her head.
One partner (Partner 1) said, “You can use the picture.”
“I already did that!” she said. “There are only onions.” She pointed to the word. “That’s not onions!”
“Well, you can look at the whole picture. Like this part here.”
They looked together, pointing.
“I see carrots.”
“Those are potatoes.”
“I don’t know what that is.” (Of course it was very indistinctly illustrated celery.)
Partner 1 continued, “Maybe you can think about what’s happening in the book.”
Partner 2 spoke up, not unkindly, “I know what it is, but I’m not going to say.”
J said, “That’s because partners don’t tell, they help!”
“Well,” Partner 2 said, “You can try two sounds. Remember c can make two different sounds.” She paused and then said in a sing-songy voice, “Sometimes it sounds like another letter.”
J looked at the word again. “sel.. uh.. ree….sel.uh.ree…celery!” Her face lit up. “It’s celery!” she shouted triumphantly!

After congratulating them on all their hard work, I left the group, smiling. It’s lovely to see readers work and grow together.

March SOL Challenge–Day 8

Yesterday was one of those days. When my kids were little and had a bad case of the “can’t help its”( when nothing was right with the world and whining and tears reigned), we’d say, “If they’re crabby, put them in water!” And we’d pop them in the tub. It was pretty much a no-fail intervention. They loved communal tub time and 3o minutes in the tub got rid of the grumpies and some sand, dirt and general crustiness as well.

So  last night when I came home from school feeling as surly and prickly as a sea urchin, I took my own advice and headed for the tub. Book in hand, I filled the tub with steaming water, shut the bathroom door, and shut out a less-than-fulfilling afternoon in the classroom. It had been one of those days. Lessons felt awkward or unfocused, students were off task, even a bit sassy, and my stress level hovered in the red zone. A looming teacher visit, approaching grades, conferences, umpteen meetings and the general work load just felt like way too much. So to detox, I headed for the tub.

Back in those long ago days when my children were young, I also headed to the tub for stress relief. I’d hand the kids over to my husband and sneak to the bathroom with my book. What followed inevitably went something like this: I’d immerse myself in the tub and feel the stress begin to recede and my breathing begin to deepen. Ahhh. Then someone’s little footsteps would patter down the wooden hallway.
“Mama?”  Bang! Bang! Bang!  “Mama?”
“Mama?  Mama! Mama! Mama! Let me in!” Bang! Bang! Bang!
Then, my husband would yell, “Leave Mommy alone!” and
Thud.  Thud. Thud. come remove the child from the door. Crying ensued and quickly amped into screaming. Sobbing.
“Mama! Mama! Mama!”
In the bathroom I would close my eyes and sink slowly down, down, down into the tub. Until my hair floated in a cloud about my head. Until the water seeped up, over and into my ears, muffling all exterior sounds, and then lapped at my cheeks.
Patter. Patter. Patter.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Mama!”
Relaxing it wasn’t.

Last night I was able to sit in the tub and read for as long as I wanted. No small hands beat at the door. No warbling voices called for me to let them in. My hair stayed dry and the house was silent. I let the stress of the day ease away as I steeped in hot water. It was wonderful…but also not. My surliness evolved into sadness. I miss my babies.

It was just one of those days.

March SOL Challenge–Day 7

Skinny Pop Moment
(A Tale from an Addict’s Life)

Sure I’ll have a handful, but that’s
Kind of a small one. Puny, really.
I‘ll take another, maybe just a wee bit bigger.
No cholesterol! No trans fat! No guilt!
Nom, nom, nom!
Yikes, they don’t put much in here! It’s
Puzzling how the contents dwindle so quickly.
Oh, my…the bag is almost empty!
Perhaps there’s another one in the cupboard?

Day 6 March SOL Challenge

In August my youngest daughter went to college and bought a plant for her dorm room. She opted for a succulent and it looked something like this:

When she brought it home at Christmas, it was a shadow of its former self. She set it down in the kitchen. Several leaves tumbled off, landing damply on the table.

“I don’t think we get enough light in our room,” she said, eyeing the plant.

“I don’t know, Lydia. It looks like it’s rotting to me.”

Over break the plant remained in the kitchen. Day by day the leaves released their tenuous hold and dropped onto the table. If someone brushed it, multiple leaves plopped off and sometimes you could just walk by and a leaf would softly tumble down. The remaining leaves looked bruised and slightly wrinkled.

After a bit of research, we decided it had been overwatered. We set it on the living room table in front of the window, and bit by bit, most of the few remaining leaves fell off. The naked stem looked plucked and diseased. There was still a smaller plant at the base of the main plant. Perhaps it might survive?

Lydia left for school, abandoning her plant. We didn’t water it. We didn’t really look at it. If anything, we politely averted our eyes as we walked by it, like trying not to stare at a scar or missing limb. The plant sat there day after day. A silent reproach.

Last night I was immersed in work, overwhelmed by the hopeless task of getting it all done. I glanced up from my computer and something caught my eye. What was that? There, at the end of that mottled, leprous-looking stem was a delicate new set of leaves, a miniature plant, dangling like a dewdrop. I pushed my work to the side and looked closer, examining the plant from top to bottom. The stem seemed harder now–still unsightly, but not so damp and pulpy. In the soil at the base of the plant, delicate threadlike ruby roots and new growth emerged from fallen bruised leaves. Look what had happened when I wasn’t looking!
I’d given this plant up as a lost cause but it surprised me with its tenacity. I’m sure there’s a message in this somewhere.  Seemingly impossible things can happen? Never give up? Spring will come? Don’t overwater your succulent?  Regardless of the message, my spirits lifted and I returned to work, smiling and feeling more hopeful. Maybe I can actually get my work done.

March SOL Challenge–Day 5

Inspired by Alan Wright‘s slice about what he found on his morning walk and looking for my own slice inspiration, I set out on a walk early this morning. In my enthusiasm for writing material, I didn’t fully factor in a few critical details. One, Alan lives in Australia and I live in Maine. There’s a bit of a seasonal difference. And 2, I forgot to consider today’s temperature. It’s been such an odd, mild winter that I guess I’d forgotten that 16 degrees with a bit of wind feels like…well, misery.

I set out with grand intentions, focused on the nature around me. The morning light spilled onto fallow fields. Chickadees chirped, crows cawed and a small flock of unidentified birds fluttered away as I approached. Two roosters duetted at a nearby farm. I smiled when I noticed the maple trees along the road garnished with tubing and large plastic bucket. The sap’s flowing!  Spring’s on its way. This was such a great idea!

As I walked, I stopped to take a few pictures: a bird’s nest camouflaged in a bush, a friendly woodpecker, reflections in ice. After a few photographs, my fingers ached with cold.  After a mile or so, the wind picked up. I pulled my scarf up higher on my neck, ducking my chin into its fleecy warmth and rubbed my gloved hands on my thighs.  My cheeks stung and my thighs felt like two frozen hams, still capable of moving but slightly detached from my sensory system. This is not fun!

Ceding defeat, I turned around, leaned into the wind and trudged toward home, not noticing nearly so much on the return journey. After another 15 minutes or so, with fumbling, frozen fingers, I opened the door and tripped into my house, greeted by the warmth. Thank goodness that’s over with!

Spring may be coming, but it’s not here yet!

March SOLC – Day 4

The sun shone through the palm trees, gloriously warm on my New England winter-pale skin. The on-shore breeze stirred the palms into a rustle and their shadows danced over the surface of the pool. In the background the constant surge and swish of the ocean sang and the pelicans dove in the surf.

Sitting by the pool in Puerto Rico, I surreptitiously wiped tears from my cheeks, and my heart ached. Slowly I closed the book I had just finished reading, setting it gingerly on my blue and white striped beach towel. I had to get up. I had to move. Something felt cracked or bruised inside of me. I walked over to the edge of the patio and stared blindly out into the brilliant turquoise of the Caribbean Sea.

I was bereft. I wanted to throw my head back and howl into the tropical wind. To ululate. To keen. To wail with grief. I fought to stifle the sobs welling within me.  How? How can people be capable of such atrocity? How can people be capable of such bravery? How is it that the worst in man can inspire the best? And, oh sweet Lord, how can humans be so incredibly resilient?

Two days ago I wrote about books and how they have impacted my life through the years. Stephen King believes that writing is telepathy. In On Writing he wrote that “All the arts depend upon telepathy to some degree, but I believe that writing offers the purest distillation.”   On the morning I described I hadn’t been in Puerto Rico, I’d been moving through war-torn Europe, witnessing the heights and depths of humanity, transported through space and time by the pages of my book.  There is surely magic in the ability of an author to craft words about the horrors of war and the triumphs of individuals into a reading experience that sent tears streaming down my cheeks in the tropical sun and simply put, overwhelmed me.

After some time spent staring at the ocean, struggling to regain my equilibrium, I stuffed those feelings deep within me, incapable of fully wrestling with them, at this time, in this setting. But before returning to the sun and the surf, I bowed my head, bearing witness to the past and acknowledging the power of Kristin Hannah and the written word.

During my second pregnancy, way back in the early 1990s, I was on bedrest for 10 weeks. My midwives made weekly home visits and I did not leave the second floor of our Baltimore townhouse.  The second floor wasn’t large, consisting of our bedroom, a hallway and the bathroom. Thankfully, I had shower and toilet privileges, but otherwise I was restricted to bed at a 30 degree or less angle. I was an incredibly compliant patient because I was absolutely scared to death. Less than a year earlier I had buried my three day old son and I could not bear to lose another child.

During my time on bedrest, I worked diligently to keep my mind occupied and away from the quagmire of panic that lurked. Time dragged. I had visitors but my friends and family had their own busy lives and not many were local. Bear in mind this was decades ago–no cell phones, no ipads with apps, no social networks, etc. I refused to nap because I feared sleepless nights with no distractions. I learned to cross-stitch, I read,and I spent hours watching Matlock and Barnaby Jones episodes. (I remember one stellar day when there was a 24-hour Matlock Marathon!)  I listened to the radio, talked on the phone, and spent too much time playing the newest StarWars game and Zelda on the Nintendo. The highlight of my day was crossing off the previous day on my calendar and knowing my baby was one day older and stronger.

During this time I developed a lovely relationship with the UPS man, perhaps bordering on a crush. Thanks to the generosity of friends and family looking to distract me, and my unlimited time with catalogues, he visited our home with some frequency.   Each and every day stretched before me with hours to fill and anything that altered the pace of the day was welcome. I thought about the UPS man a lot (Will he come today? Is that his truck I hear?)  and was always delighted when he arrived. He knocked on the door at ground level and I peeked out my second floor window. After we exchanged waves and hellos and a short conversation, I lowered the house key on a long string to him. He unlocked the door, set the package inside, then locked up again. We’d wave goodbye and I would then pull the key back up to the bedroom. That was it. But it was a bit of unexpected sparkle in my day. The UPS man’s visits were rejuvenating: A chance to stand up for a few minutes, stick my head out the window and interact with the world. The tough part was waiting for my husband to get home before I could find out what sort of package had arrived. Sometimes I knew what it was but other times I spent lots of time imagining. Either way it gave me something to think about and broke the monotony of those long, lonely days.

I stumbled across this poem the other day and it reminded me of how I looked forward to those visits and quick chats with that long-ago UPS man. It also totally tickled my funny bone.  It’s just sheer, unadulterated fun! I smiled the whole time I read this and am convinced that Alice N. Persons had a grin on her face as she wrote it.

Why I Have A Crush On You, UPS Man
by Alice N. Persons

you bring me all the things I order
are never in a bad mood
always have a jaunty wave as you drive away
look good in your brown shorts
we have an ideal uncomplicated relationship
you’re like a cute boyfriend with great legs
who always brings the perfect present
(why, it’s just what I’ve always wanted!)
and then is considerate enough to go away
oh, UPS Man, let’s hop in your clean brown truck and elope !

read the rest of this poem at http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2007/08/21

Epilogue: After ten weeks, I was 34 weeks pregnant and bedrest ended. You’d think I’d have leapt out of bed, jubilant, but I was still so scared. Bedrest seemed to have worked so why shouldn’t I hang out for a few more weeks until the baby was full term?  My midwives announced, kindly but firmly, that I needed to get up and moving and that they would no longer come to my house for visits. I had to go to them. And so I got up and moving, once more interacting with the world.

My son was born 2 weeks later, weighing 6 lbs 6 ounces. He turns 23 in June.

For more poetry, go to this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup at TeacherDance.

March SOL Challenge–Day 3

Books have nurtured me throughout my life. Within their pages I’ve found so many things: Companionship, wisdom, adventure, knowledge, understanding, wonder, refuge, and respite. I truly believe there have been times in my life when books saved me–offering me escape from painful reality, a new perspective or a way to move forward.

I pick up books at book stores, library sales, yard sales, my local recycling barn, and anywhere else I can lay my hands on them.  At my home, books tumble in piles near my bed, fill cardboard boxes, gather on table tops, crowd multiple bookcases, and even spill over into my car. These accumulated books often carry tangible talismans from their past: a comment scribbled in the margin, dog-eared pages, a torn corner, a coffee cup stain, photographs, a note, a letter, a receipt, an inscription.  Each mark or item tells a story that adds to the book. I can only imagine the details, but feel richer for having touched or held these items. They add another layer to the story of that book.  Perhaps the life of a book doesn’t only exist within its pages but encompasses its life as a physical object, accumulating over time.

Not surprisingly my classroom is also filled with books.  The other day I was tidying up, tucking books away in the classroom library, and I found this anonymous sticky note waving from the pages of a book.

Translation (for those who are not fluent in First Grade):

note to me
T.rex has a period
after T
but the R
is still lowercase

This note delighted me on so many levels, though I struggle to explain exactly why. I can imagine a student actively reading this book, thoroughly engaged and aware, noticing that lower case r after T. in T.rex and then puzzling about it. I love the evidence that this student stopped and wondered about something new or different. This time it was punctuation, perhaps next time it will be an idea or an unknown word. There is an earnest learner here, taking the time to write a memo “note to me”, and clearly writing down each sound (and a few extras) to spell that challenging word “period”.  “Pearyied.” And I guess at the bottom of it all, I’m entranced by that earnestness, that investment in learning, and by the evidence left of a reading life.

After I read the sticky note and shared it with a few colleagues, I tucked it back into the pages of that book. There it rests, another layer in this book’s life, a talisman, waiting for discovery by another reader at another time.

SOL March Challenge Day 2

Hmm…maybe I’ll run today. The thought entered my head quietly as I sat and worked at the table on Sunday, occasionally glancing up at the blue sky and drifting clouds outside. I hadn’t run in months but the mercury was rising and the idea of running was tempting. Time passed and I kept working, but the thought had planted itself and grew steadily, becoming more insistent. Finally, not one to turn down a consistent burst of motivation, I decided.

“I’m going running!”  I announced to my husband. “If I’m not back within an hour, come looking for me.” He laughed and settled on the couch for an afternoon nap.

Ten minutes later I walked down the driveway and turned to the left. I would run either a 2 or 3 mile loop, depending on how it went. Pleased with myself for getting out and moving on this beautiful day, I set off.   Running is a great thinking time for me and sparks lots of writing ideas, so immediately my thoughts turned to the upcoming SOL challenge. What might I write about?  I settled into my stride, looking about me at the dreary mid-winter scenery, seeking inspiration.  I smiled when I noticed emerging pussy willow buds and watched as crows postured in the neighbor’s yard. It felt great to be out in the sun and running again!

Up ahead I heard dogs barking from a neighbor’s house.  It looked like there were more of them than usual and I was glad to see two people were outside, calling them back. These dogs always bark and run to the edge of the property, but never come out into the road.  I ran closer and a pile of dogs bounded up, barking and barking. Just keep running.

“Knock it off!” the man yelled. “Get back here!”

I waved and kept running but moved further out into the road.  Suddenly, one of the dogs separated from the group, jumped forward into the road, and, in an instant, bit me! I stopped, stunned, feeling the pain in my lower leg. The man and woman continued to call the dogs and thankfully, they all retreated.

“Sorry!” the man called.

“Your dog just bit me!” I said.

“No, he didn’t.”

“Yes, he did!” I insisted and pulled up my running pants to reveal two shallow grooves with welling blood.

“Oh,” he said, startled, “I thought he just jumped on you. Are you ok?”

“Well, I think so.”  I watched anxiously as he and the woman herded the dogs into the house. I was shell-shocked and my leg hurt. I can’t believe this just happened.   The man returned.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “He’s not even my dog. He’s my sister’s.”

“Well,” I asked, “Is he up to date on his shots. I need to see proof of his vaccinations.”

That, unfortunately, wasn’t quite as simple as one would have hoped. And so began a long afternoon of confusing conversations, multiple calls to doctors, veterinary clinics, and the animal control officer, and a 2+ hour visit to the Walk-In Clinic for a tetanus shot. Luckily, the injury was minor and the dog was up to date on shots (though this took almost 24 hours to ascertain and still isn’t 100% official as there remains a complicated snag with the confirming paperwork).

During all the stress and chaos of the afternoon, so many thoughts raced through my head. Chief among them after Ouch! and I can’t believe this just happened! was Oh my God, am I going to have to get a rabies vaccine!?!  (You know, the one everyone hastened to assure me was incredibly painful and expensive?)  Other thoughts raced in and out as well.  Why didn’t I turn right? Why couldn’t he have bitten me on the way home after my run instead of only 1/4 mile into it? And, I’m not kidding, the final thought, once the initial shock was over: Well, I guess I’ll have something to slice about this week!