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.

March 2018 SOLC–Day 20
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

March is always a challenging month. It contains this daily writing challenge, report cards, and parent/teacher conferences. Throw in MEA testing, regular planning and lingering winter and you can see why it can be daunting at times. When I get overwhelmed, I try to focus on those little things that make me happy. Here are eight of them (Ten just seemed too predictable!):

1. Writing with a very sharp pencil. Of course, this only lasts for a few words or sentences, but I love the press of that sharp tip on paper. I’ve switched to mechanical pencils for the convenience of “ever sharp”, but they really don’t compare.
2. Jazzy paperclips. I buy boxes of plastic coated brightly colored and patterned paper clips for my classroom. The little bursts of color make me happy. (Until I discover their mutilated little corpses on the floor or under my desk. Who is doing this and why? And when??)
3. Ginger preserves. OMG. These are amazing. I make toast and slather it with a thick layer of chunky ginger preserves and I’m immediately happy. (This was an undiluted pleasure until my daughter recently discovered the Prop 64 “known carcinogen label” on its side. We now refer to this as the cancer jam. Ugh. But I did a little research and I still eat it.)
4. Choosing stamps. When I go to the post office, I spend time looking at what stamps are available. There’s always some version of Love stamps and the ubiquitous flag stamps, but there are treasures to be found. I just picked up a sheet of Andrew Wyeth stamps and a sheet of stamps inspired by Ezra Jack Keats’ Snowy Day. There’s a small joy in choosing which stamp to use, especially if I’m sending a card or letter.
5. Good pens. Trite but true. I have a few favorites, depending on what I’m doing. Flair pens. Optiflow. Uniball. A fresh sheet of paper and a smooth-flowing pen= heaven.
6. Bird watching. I can do this for hours. During the recent storms the birds have been so active at the feeders! I’m feeling a bit guilty these days though, as the addition of two young and active cats to our household, combined with bird feeders, seems a bit like aiding and abetting.
7. The seat warmer in my car. I snuggle right into that warm seat and feel contentment spread through my body. Doesn’t that saying go, “Warm butt, warm heart?” Best car option EVER!
8. Soup! Soup! Soup! Every Sunday I make a batch to eat for lunch at school all week long. I love the aromatic tendriling steam above it, the fact that it simmers away without much attention while I attend to other things, and the knowledge that one part of my week is now under control. Ah, soup! This week’s flavor: Butternut Squash Curry. Yum!

What are the little things that brighten up your day?

March 2018 SOLC–Day 19
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

Sunday Morning

Outside, a single bird sings,
a river of notes
rises and falls
rises and falls
sunrise kindles the horizon
the air is faintly luminescent
with the soft glow of snow

Inside, the fire flares
in the wood stove
flames and shadows dance
The warming metal
tick tick ticks
The table lamp beside me
casts an amber circle of light
I take my pen in hand
and write.

M. Hogan (c) 2018

March 2018 SOLC–Day 18
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

If you’ve read some of my recent slices, you may have noticed that my husband is into a “clearing out” phase now that we’re empty nesters. I’m resisting. Just a little. Cleaning out the house can feel liberating (Yes, I know these are just things.) and can yield some interesting discoveries (ew!), but all these things he wants to trash/sell/giveaway come with memories attached. (See slices here, and here)

We live in a town that has a Recycling Barn. In addition to dropping off your plastics and papers, you can drop of re-useable items that you no longer need or want. There’s a sort of shop in the back corner with shelves and bins for books, games, clothes, knick knacks, sports and kitchen equipment, etc. We add our items to the collection regularly, and I’ve made some amazing finds there (my Melitta electric kettle, a brand new three-step folding ladder, unopened Himalayan salt shot glasses for a tequila-loving friend, fabulous amateur paintings, etc.). Visiting the Recycling Barn is one of my weekend chores and pleasures. You never know what you might find!

In recent weeks, Kurt (my husband) has taken over this duty. Yesterday, as I was organizing the recycling, I thought, “Maybe it’s a good thing that Kurt’s doing the recycling these days. That way I won’t be tempted to bring more stuff into the house. If I don’t see it, I can’t want it.” And off I went to tackle my list of errands.

I returned a couple of hours later, laden with grocery bags and assorted items. Kurt opened the door for me and I turned away from the family room and went straight into the kitchen to dump them unceremoniously on the floor. I headed out again for another load. Kurt dogged my steps.

“Did you see my score?” he asked.

“What? No. What score?” I asked him. He was grinning from ear to ear.

“It’s in the family room. Come see! I found the coolest chair at the Recycling Barn. It’s amazing!” His words tumbled over each other in his excitement.

I burst out laughing. “Are you kidding me? Aren’t you the one who’s trying to get rid of everything?”

“I know, I know,” he said, “but it’s great!”

Dumping the second load of bags in the kitchen, I followed him into the family room to check out “the score”. There, on the carpet in the middle of the room, was his find.

“Look!” he said. He sat in it and tilted it this way and that. “It’s really comfortable!”

He extolled its virtues–the color (“I love this color! I could have a whole room decorated in this color!”), the comfort, the craftsmanship! He was like a little kid with a new toy. So excited!

Then sitting in the chair, he turned to me a bit sheepishly, “I even knew when I got it that we had nowhere to put it. I just couldn’t resist it. It’s a great chair!”

It really is a great chair. Except we have nowhere to put it.

March 2018 SOLC–Day 17
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 tend toward clutter and like to collect all sorts of objects.  In fact, one of my son’s high school friends once told me, “Your house is the messiest house I know. But in a really good way.” (I’m still not sure how I should have reacted to that one!)

Looking out of the kitchen window during a recent snowstorm, I realized that my windowsill holds a lot of stories. If visitors came into my house and looked at that windowsill, they would see an assortment of objects.

They’d see… a gerber daisy blooming, a bright splash of color against the wintry landscape on the other side of the window panes.

But they wouldn’t know…that my daughters gave it to me for Mother’s Day last year and that it’s blossomed three times and each bloom warms my heart.

They’d see… a small nest with two sand dollars resting inside it.

But they wouldn’t know…that the nest mysteriously appeared on our back porch one summer day and cupping it in my hands, I carefully carried it inside. Then I found the sand dollars on my favorite beach, lit by the rays of the rising sun. The quirky juxtaposition of the two,  appealed to me–ocean meets sky,  both reminders of the joy and peace I find in nature.

They’d see… an oddly-shaped plant

But they wouldn’t know …that once it looked like this.

Despite all odds, it lived and in its small way, is a symbol of optimism and tenacity. I even wrote about a slice about it (here).

They’d see …a small purple jar with paintbrushes in it.

But they wouldn’t know… that the jar was carefully wrapped in T-shirts and transported from Paris to Rome to Dublin and then back to Maine. In Paris it was a yogurt container. Here it holds paintbrushes and memories.

So many stories linger within these seemingly random items. A visitor might wonder, or dismiss them all as clutter. They’d see the items, but they’d never know all the stories that live on my windowsill.