March 2022 SOLC–Day 5
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

Mornings this week have been especially gorgeous. I have a beautiful commute through rolling rural hills and over a river to get to school. With overnight snowfalls and perfectly timed sunrises, I’ve been treated to one spectacle after another– sun-lit birches like candelabra rising from the snow, a river obscured by an incandescent mass of glowing fog, dried flower heads gathering snow like blossoms. My classroom view isn’t bad either.

So, I arrived at school on Friday feeling particularly grateful for living in Maine and decided to focus our morning meeting share on things we felt thankful for. I told my fourth graders they could share something about living in Maine, or they could mention anything they were grateful for. We went around the circle sharing.

“I’m thankful for family and friends.”

“I’m thankful for ice fishing, snowmobiling and sledding.”

“I’m thankful for all the open places.”

Then it was A’s turn. A is a petite, quirky kid who likes to contribute to conversations with his own twist.

“I’m grateful that I used to live in Alabama where it was 80˚ in the winter!” he announced emphatically.

B. (who is also quirky and once tried to convince me that a character with a dark outlook on life had probably previously had his amygdala damaged in an accident even if, “No, Mrs. Hogan, I can’t back that up with evidence from the story.”) turned to him. “If it was 80˚ in winter, what was it in the summer?”

“Oh, it was in the 100s,” he said.

There were a lot of “Whoas” and “Wows” from the northern-bred kids in my classroom.

Then I heard B. say to himself quietly, in all seriousness, “Well, I guess that explains why you’re so small. You probably had all the water boiled out of you.”

You can’t make these things up.

March 2022 SOLC–Day 3
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

Ruth Ayres offers a weekly prompt for writers on her blog. This morning’s was especially timely for me: Write about a writing habit.

This morning I woke up one minute before my alarm went off. 4:37 am. Why it’s set for that exact time I can’t tell you. Except 4:30 sounds so early, and 4:45 is too late. I can’t remember when I started rising so much earlier, but I can tell you that my mornings fall into a pattern that enriches me.

This morning, like every morning, I stumble out of bed and grab my glasses and robe. Downstairs I turn on the coffee pot, pour my OJ/cranberry juice mixture, and feed the cats. Curious about whether we got any snow last night or not, I turn on the outside lights. 

The scene has been transformed overnight, and it’s still snowing heavily. I hadn’t expected more than a dusting. The dried hydrangea blossoms, which should have been trimmed months ago, serve as mounting platforms for snow. The small garden lanterns wear tall top-hats and the birch tree is lined with a glistening white coat. I feel a momentary leap at the beauty and then a quick flutter of hope. Snow day? I don’t think so though. I quickly check the forecast and realize the snowfall should end within an hour or so. Thoughts of an extension to my relaxed morning fade away, and I slip back into my routine. Into my habit.

I sit down at the table where I write and look outside for a few more minutes. Feel gratitude swamp me for this view. For my home. I could linger here for a long while. Content to watch the snow fall past the outdoor lights, accumulate on the path…Content to do nothing but absorb it all…

Still, I haven’t written my SOLC post yet. I know I should probably go straight to the computer. Efficiency and all. But my hands automatically reach for my notebook. That’s my habit. That’s where I begin every morning. Some days it’s journaling, some days it’s story writing, some days it’s poetry, Most days it’s a mixture. But almost every day it happens. Page after page in my notebook. I strive for at least three pages, but honor whatever happens.

That’s my writing habit. An anchor in crazy times. The place where, as Ruth writes, words “wobble and bend” and “stack”. The place where I center myself before the day begins.

My gift to myself.

March 2022 SOLC–Day 2
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 don’t recall how old we were, but I distinctly remember my best friend and I vowing to drive semi-trucks when we grew up. These were the once-upon-a-long-time-ago days of CB radios and miles-long truck convoys barreling down the highways. Otherwise known as the 1970s. There were songs, movies and an alluring whiff of outlaw adventure. We bought right into the mystique, and were ready to put the hammer down and head out in search of highway adventures.

Having our priorities firmly in place (along with our pink and green ribbon hairbands), we spent hours considering possible handles*. We finally settled on the “Diesel Darlin’s”. Cute, right? Clearly, we’d be on the road as a team (I mean that went without saying–BFF and all!) and clearly we were also drawn to alliteration. Trucker Poet Prodigies!

For some reason on Monday morning as I headed back to the classroom after break, my thoughts turned back to that semi dream. Besides the gold-plated appeal of a CB handle, why had I even entertained the thought of driving a semi? My family would not have been supportive of that career choice. Had I been nurturing a small flame of rebellion? Had I been keen for some adventure outside my safe suburban childhood? And then how did I go from that initial career choice to teaching? What were some of the twists and turns along the way? Also, how hard is it to get a trucking license? Hmmmm…

Walking into school, I had to smile. I certainly had come a long way from that dream and a long way away from that younger version of me, but it was entertaining to revisit both.

If you choose to listen, below is the link to the famous-at-the-time song, Convoy, and the trailer of the similarly-named movie. I didn’t count how many times I listened to it while writing this, but I guess there must still be a whiff of allure to that renegade trucker life. And let’s face it, gas prices aside, getting out of the classroom and hitting the open road doesn’t sound too bad these days.

Now to figure out a new handle*…

(Truckin’ Teacher? Semi-Retired? ha ha ha….Oh, I’m going to have fun thinking about this!)

*CB nickname

March 2022 SOLC–Day 1
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

“Ugh, those bathrooms were disgusting,” I thought, pushing the door closed behind me. I wanted to mention it to someone in the nearby offices, but I was in a hurry to catch up with my family. While in the bathroom, I’d heard the announcement that closing time was approaching. I knew my group was already wending their way back through the enclosed exhibits toward the exit on a lower floor.

I looked around, crossed the vestibule and headed quickly to the exhibit doors. I couldn’t believe how quickly it had cleared out.

How far ahead were they anyway?

I reached for my purse before remembering, once again, that I’d lost my cell phone earlier. It was amazing how cut off I felt without it. Already I was dreading the hoops I’d have to jump through to replace it. 

Ahead of me a uniformed man held the door open.

I smiled and thanked him, entered the main part of the building and then walked a few steps down the path. 

Wait, what!?

I stopped in my tracks. The way ahead of me was half-lit, the plants and trees more suggested than visible, the exhibits dark and half covered.

I turned and stepped back toward the man.

He was firmly closing the door between us.

“Wait!” I said, “Can’t I go out the door by the offices instead?”

He shook his head, continuing to pull the door shut.

“But it’s dark, and I’m really not sure I remember how to get through,” I pleaded.

I couldn’t hear him through the thick pane of glass, but I could see his face. Grim, determined. Unrelenting. An exaggerated circle of “NO” on his lips.

Wow. This is ridiculous!

I turned back to look ahead of me, shaking my head. I couldn’t decide if I was more angry or nervous. The path lead down a steady slope. What earlier had been a clear walkway was now half covered with tarps. The light was dim and seemed to be fading. Shadows were multiplying.

Wait! What kind of animals had I seen on the way through? Were any of them roaming?

Nervous quickly won out over angry, and was fast ceding to scared. I pushed myself to reverse my earlier route in my mind. The route to come seemed darker and more sinister by the moment.

How was I going to find my way?

My memory of the journey up the path faded as I struggled to envision the twists and turns.

Where was that pond? Were the stairs before or after that? Why couldn’t I remember?!

I could feel my anxiety mounting, poking icy fingers along my spine.

Well, I don’t have a choice, I guess. I just need to start going. This is so strange! Oh, but look on the bright side, at least I’ll get a slice out of it. 

I took a tentative step forward, reminding myself to pay close attention as I walked, to look for moments and details that might spark up a story.

I took another firmer step forward…

and then I woke up.

It was this morning, first morning of the March challenge, and I’d fallen asleep wondering what I would write about today.

It’s not quite what I imagined! But hey, at least I got a slice out of it.