Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. I walked through the icy snow, my feet slipping in the rutted frozen ridges. The sun had set long ago and the only light out back was a yellow block of light spilling from the window in the first chicken coop onto the glittery snow. I’d just gotten home from work and was headed to the coops on chick duty. I would much rather have been headed toward the couch with a glass of wine in hand, but we’d just installed a heater for the water container, and I needed to ensure that it actually worked. I also had to check for eggs. With temperatures in the negatives at night and lingering in the teens during the day, it’s easy enough for both water and eggs to freeze.

After making my way through the snow, I peered through the window into the first coop, the one with the light. “Hi, girls!” I called out. The chicks  ruffled their feathers and cooed as I opened the door and checked things out. No problems! The new heater seemed to be working fine and water pooled in the bottom of the dispenser. Now it was time to go around the back of this coop to the other one, where they tend to lay eggs.

Darn it! I’d forgotten the flashlight. I paused. There is no light back here. None. Not feeling like making the trek back to the house and back again, I decided to work in darkness. Carefully I walked back to the second coop and felt around until I found the metal latch. Pushing it upward, I began to tug the wooden door open and then stopped, as a sudden vision from this past autumn intruded–a vision of the body of a small rat, pecked to death lying in the chickens’ nest. Oh, I’m really not sure I want to do this without a flashlight. I stood in the cold night air debating what to do. Hmmmm… should I go back and get the flashlight?   I vacillated a bit and finally decided to go for it. The odds had to be in my favor, right?  I’m still not sure if this was optimism or laziness at work.

At any rate, I opened the door and carefully reached into the nest area, feeling something soft brush against my fingers. A loud hissing sort of “GRAWKKKKKKK” filled the air. I jumped backward and shut the door. What the h#$L was that? For some reason the whole thing suddenly struck me as hilarious. I started laughing. I leaned against the coop and laughed and laughed. Pulling myself upright, I laughed the whole way back to the house, crunching through the snow.

At the house I grabbed my flashlight and trudged back out to coop. With my light held high, I slowly opened the door. Sitting on the nest regarding me with a baleful eye was one Rhode Island Red. She wasn’t budging and I ceded: There was no need to push this issue. Still smiling, but with no eggs in hand, I stomped back through the slippery snow to the house.

A friend recently posted a photo of Andrew Wyeth’s painting “Master Bedroom” on Facebook. I’ve always loved this piece but for some reason this time I saw it in a new way. My experience reminded me of the book The Salamander Room where the child’s walls eventually  melt away as his room transforms into a perfect salamander habitat. You may not have the same experience, but forgive me my flight of fancy.

Master Bedroom by Andrew Wyeth

Gazing at the painting
my eyes slide away
from the sleeping
white dog,
the shadows shift,
the bed fades,
the walls disintegrate
into distant dappled forests
a wintry scene
light puddles on a blanket
of fallen snow
and flakes drift
like lace
in the lower
left
quadrant.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

For more poetry,visit Tabatha Yeatts at her blog,  The Opposite of Indifference.

These balloons look innocent, don’t they?

It was 3:30 pm on Friday afternoon after the longest week ever.  I’d been looking forward to the weekend with a ferocity that was slightly alarming. (You can read my purging poem, “Report Cards, Sisyphus, Christmas Carols and Questionable Sanity, if you want the full story about that.)  The kids were safely loaded onto the buses and after briefly chatting with colleagues, I settled down to finish up the last task of the day. With solid potential for a snow day on Monday, things were looking up. I only had to organize materials for an upcoming science exploration before I could head home, pour my glass of wine, put my feet up and breathe.

Almost two hours later, I sat in the middle of my classroom surrounded by the debris field of a 4th grade Matter unit explosion. Everyone else had already left the building (probably at a run–the traitors!) Around me were strewn deceptively happy-colored balloons, streaks of flour, and scattered grains of rice. Next to me a blue puddle of liquid soap detergent soaked slowly into the carpet. There was a strange low sound coming from somewhere in the room. It took me a full minute to realize that it was me….moaning.

Have you ever tried to fill balloons with rice and flour? It’s annoying but do-able with a bit of determination and some reasonably cooperative balloons. I had started out almost two hours earlier fully determined and relatively optimistic. Unfortunately, I quickly discovered that the balloons in the kit were less than cooperative. In fact, they were clearly manufactured by some sadistic-minded person–probably someone who still holds a grudge against his fourth grade teacher. These balloons were of the tough latex not-easy-to-tie variety. This difficulty was compounded by the teaching manual’s explicit statement that I must ensure there was no additional air in the balloons. Each balloon needed to contain only one specific matter–flour, rice, water, etc. I poured and pushed and prodded to get the solid materials into the balloons. I squeezed to get out extra air, sending powdery fireworks of flour exploding into the air and drifting onto the carpet. A river of rice spilled from the opened bag and small grains were sprinkled like confetti all around me. Oh God! The custodians are going to kill me!  The minutes ticked by one after another, my labors continued and the start of my weekend retreated with each tick as I struggled to fill the balloons.

After a fair bit of effort and a lot of ticking minutes, I finally had 12 balloons filled with solids and neatly placed in a tub. I was on to the liquids and heaved an enormous sigh of relief. This should be so much easier! I quickly grabbed a balloon and funneled in some dishwashing soap, removed the funnel and began to tie off the balloon, again being mindful of the admonishment to avoid leaving air in the balloon. Did you know that one of the properties of dishwashing liquid is that it’s slippery? Very slippery? And it doesn’t stay neatly nestled in the bottom of the balloon but moves around like a…well, like a liquid you might say. So, as I attempted to tie off the balloon (with no extra air), the liquid soap slopped up and over the edges and created an insane situation. Try as I might, I could not tie it off. I kept losing my grip. I grabbed a handful of paper towels and tried gripping the neck of the balloon with them. As soon as I thought I had it neatly tied into a colorful umbilicus, it would slip back through. It was a moment worthy of an I Love Lucy episode. Soon, mounds of blue soaked towels joined the debris around me.  I tugged. I twisted. I swore. I pulled. I pleaded. My fingers ached from continuous balloon tourniquets. Finally, after about 5 long minutes of solid effort, I achieved success: One balloon filled! Now I only had to repeat this procedure. Five. More. Times.

I sat still amidst the chaos for a few long minutes. This preparation was simply insane–completely unreasonable. But it had to be done. There wasn’t another option. So after a few more heaving sighs, mewling noises of distress and some choice words, I buckled down and I did it. I’d like to report that things changed and everything slipped neatly into place, but let’s just say my standards slipped along with my fingers and my dignity as the process reached completion. By 5:30 I was finished and sitting on the floor- not triumphant, just really, really tired.

Where does it come from, I wondered, this extra something that we so often pull out of thin air? When our bootstraps are threadbare, and fray and snap at our desperate tugs, how do we manage to come through time and time again? Because we all do it. We sit in the midst of evil balloons and science materials, or next to a mountainous pile of ungraded essays, or up to our eyebrows in grading and report card narratives, on the brink of manic laughter or desperate tears. Then we somehow take a deep breath, pull it together and get the job done. And if necessary the next day, we just do it again. And the amazing thing is, most of us love our jobs and feel lucky to have them–Lucky to work with kids and to work with colleagues who are committed, collaborative and resilient. Lucky to work in vibrant, engaging environments with common goals.

Sometimes the teaching life really does defy explanation.

When I get a chance I like to participate in author Laura Purdie Salas’s weekly 15 words or less Poem Challenge. Each Thursday she posts a photo prompt (guidelines here) and an original poem. She invites others to write a 15 words or less poem in response to the photo. She considers it a “first draft exercise” and, as she says, it’s a “low pressure way to wake up your poetry brain.”  Participating this week was a real upper for me in a downer of a week. It was also a reminder that I can carve out time to write and, even if it’s only a 5-10 minute endeavor, I feel better for having done so.

Her photo prompt on Thursday was this:

Photo credit: Laura P. Salas

In case you can’t tell, Laura explained it was a photo of a cupcake decorated with Cookie Monster eating a cookie. Fun!  I mean who doesn’t love Cookie Monster?! You can read Laura’s poem here along with other contributors. I find it fascinating to read the variety of responses and to see how differently people are inspired by the same photo prompt.

Here is my contribution:

Lessons from Cookie Monster

Dive in with gusto
no regrets
Spray crumbs
Smile blue toothy grins
Embrace your inner cookie!

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

I haven’t written in more days than I want to count, and that always makes me feel out of sorts. Schoolwork has slowly but surely taken over my life and my stress level has been skyrocketing. I’ve definitely struggled to maintain any sort of reasonable perspective–and pretty much failed. This is a long rambling purge of a poem, and I suppose it casts some shadows on my claim to sanity (and my professed love of teaching for that matter) but it felt so good to be writing again!

It’s been a crazy week and I haven’t written at all
and one day is tumbling into the next,
like cute fuzzy demented kittens,
kittens on catnip
with needle-sharp claws,
and I want to bellow,
“STOP! This is OUT OF CONTROL!”

Last night
my daughter shared a poem on Facebook,
a lovely poem,
about a woman contemplating the year past,
looking through her calendar,
gathering up the moments of joy
ceremoniously burning the rest
and I consider the past week or two
and realize that I want to
rip out those calendar days and
grind
each
day
into microscopic shards,
smash them to smithereens
under my thick-soled boots,
take them in my hands and
twist them, twist them, twist them
wringing them tighter and tighter
until they are dead, dead, DEAD!
…
but I know that’s not healthy
so I turn on some Christmas carols
in an attempt to infuse some light-hearted joy,
some holiday spirit, into my morning
Mariah Carey sings “All I Want for Christmas”
and I’m trying,
truly trying,
to get into the swing of it
but all I can remember
is that last year’s teacher left the science materials
filled with last year’s experiments
brewing, simmering,
mouldering deep in the closet
and I just found them
the night before I intended to prep the materials
to teach the unit
that I’ve barely had time to consider
because report cards took over my life
like a malevolent entity,
stretching some moments to eternity
and whisking away others in a blink
as I struggled to capture just the right phrase,
jacked on coffee and too little sleep,
trying to sneak in some planning for
this eternal week
and now when e-mails ding as they arrive
I jolt and my pulse skitters and hops
and I wonder,
What now?

WHAT!???!!!

And last night’s late email
was from my principal
with a compliment and thanks for the comments
I’d been slaving over
and I slipped into sleep and dreamed
it was the next morning and he said,
“You got what I was really saying about those comments,
didn’t you?
They were canned!
Canned!
CANNED!”
and his voice echoed louder and louder
through  my twisty-turny horrible night’s sleep

And this morning I chide myself,
reminding myself not to wish the days away
but to revel in the glory of a sunrise
or the tracery of crystallized frost on a fallen leaf
or shared laughter with a child,
but there are still two days to go
until the weekend
and my metaphors are colliding
as I hang by a thread
and, like Sisyphus, helplessly
keep pushing the rock up the hill
though sometimes it seems
like gravity triumphs
and the damn rock is careening down the mountain
and I want to turn tail and RUN
or just step out of the way
(I mean did Sisyphus ever think of that?
Did he?!)
but I’m eternally damned (or
invested or something)
and I keep pushing that boulder
up                Up                  UP
but at least now
my hips are swaying along
to jazzy holiday tunes
as Eartha Kitt belts out
“Santa Baby”
and I head out to face the day.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is at Check it Out. Click on the link to enjoy some poetry.

As I worked in the kitchen last weekend, a flash of bright movement caught my eye. There! In the apple tree! An apple was swinging back and forth. What!? A closer glance revealed the cause–a hungry jay perched and pecked. The force of each peck sent the dangling apple swinging wildly away. On it’s return, the jay pecked again. The moment caught me.

Autumn’s Pendulum

On a cider-sweet
autumn day,
one russet apple
gathers momentum
from the push and play
of gravity and jay,
a ruby flash
that swings and sways
pulsing in the heart
of the twisted tree,
marking time
while summer fades
and winter waits.

(c) Molly Hogan, 2016

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is at Carol’s Corner. Stop by to enjoy some poetry and give thanks for the wonder of words!

Laura Purdie Salas offers a 15 Words or Less Poem Challenge from a photo prompt each Thursday. Today’s challenge photo is below:

Photo credit: Laura P. Salas

I try to allow myself only 10-15 minutes to play around with this challenge as it’s intended as a sort of warm up, a rough draft exercise. I loved today’s picture, the stark and silent mood of it with that solitary silhouetted crow.  Crows are birds of mystery and magic, and symbols of death or change.  With these facts in mind, today’s effort evolved into a rather dark poem.

Sentinel

No raucous cry
pierces the sky
The crow keeps watch
Will we change
or die?

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

I wake in the darkness of early morning and  linger for a bit in bed, snuggling down into the warm nest of my tangled blankets. Finally, heaving a sigh, I roll over, grab my glasses and Fitbit (got to count EVERY step!) and step onto the chilly wooden floors.  Moving out into the hallway, I turn to head toward the kitchen and coffee and stop in my tracks. The outside light had been left on overnight and this morning it illuminates the garden, which, unexpectedly, is lightly dusted with snow. Every bush and shrub, every desiccated stalk is transformed, sugar-coated and glimmering. How had I forgotten that unearthly early morning glow of new-fallen snow?

I stand by the window as the coffee pot brews and hisses. Outside snow flakes shimmer in a dazzling show, falling softly, quietly. The light glimmers off the flakes, and ignites icy sparks in the fallen snow. I could linger by the window all morning and lose myself in the wonder of it. First snow. What a gift to waken to this sight of unforecasted snow, coating everything in brilliant white serenity.

In the midst of enjoying the snowfall, I remember the butterfly. This past Saturday was a beautiful, warm day, unnatural for November. Days like this make me slightly uneasy as I can never decide if they are a gift from summer or a dark omen of climate warming. I found the butterfly firmly attached to a burlap bag near a pile of gardening materials. At first I thought it was dead, but it gripped the burlap firmly and moved one small twig-like leg when I gently touched it. Though I urged it to depart in the unseasonal warmth, it stubbornly clung to that black bag. Now I wondered and worried. Was it still there?

Before leaving for school, I head back to the stack of burlap sacks. They are now covered in a generous coating of snow. I turn the bag upside down and the snow clumps off onto the ground below with a muffled thud. No butterfly in sight, only a crumpled leaf that sets off a brief false alarm. Perhaps, I hope, perhaps it did leave during the weekend’s unseasonal warmth.

As I set the bag back on the ground, I suddenly spy the butterfly, now firmly attached to the bag’s dry underside. Surely it must be dead. I gently nudge its tiny leg and it opens and shuts its wings. Slowly. Once. Twice. The snow continues to fall. I don’t know what to do. Should I move it somewhere? But where?  I run through a few alternatives in my head, none of them inspired. Will anything I do make a difference? Ultimately, I gently set the bag back down, butterfly firmly attached and back away, hoping the day will warm up and allow the butterfly some chance for flight. I know this is highly unlikely, but I’m uncertain about whether to interfere or how to do so.

The snow continues to fall through the day, I appreciate its beauty but I wonder. Should I have done more for that butterfly?

This poem packs a punch.

Let America Be America Again
by Langston Hughes

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed–
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

…

(click on the title to read the rest of the poem)

Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted today by Brenda Davis Harsham at her lovely blog Friendly Fairy Tales.

Not long ago, I walked into our barn in search of a hammer. I looked around, appreciating my husband’s recent tidying-up efforts. Much had been cleared away and random items had emerged from hiding in the loft and from other previously jumbled nooks and crannies. I looked on shelves and peered into the stalls, one by one, hoping to spy the elusive tool. In the end stall, a number of items leaned against the rough hewn wall. Amongst them, clearly visible, was a single yellow ladder back chair. I was immediately distracted from my quest. Where had it come from? Where had it been?

I remember that chair, along with others like it, arranged around the butcher block table in our family kitchen – the kitchen that is at the heart of so many of my childhood memories. It was the 70’s and my mom, along with fashion, favored bright and cheerful yellows, greens and oranges. These chairs fit right in, neatly complementing the vivid plaid wallpaper. I remember sitting on those woven rush seats and eating our meals together. I remember sitting on them at the end of a school day, enjoying the still-warm-from-the-oven cookies that often welcomed us home. I remember sitting on them as a family.

There must have been at least seven of these chairs once, but now there’s only this one. This one solitary chair sitting in my barn gathering dust, a relic from another time. A time when my toughest choice was which friend to invite for a sleep-over or who was cuter: Shaun Cassidy or Parker Stevenson?  A time when my family was whole and my world was small and simple, safe and secure. A time before I learned how quickly things could fracture and change irretrievably.

Standing in the barn, I ran my finger across the dusty surface of the chair. The yellow paint shone a bit brighter in that spot; my finger was gritty with dirt. How long has it been since anyone sat in this chair? Where did the others go?

I went into the barn to find a missing hammer.  A short while later, I emerged without it, feeling a bit lost myself.