Lying in my nest of blankets, I imagined piles of snow draping the garden, layered upon the table like a huge dome of frosting on a cake. Did we have a foot? More?
I already knew we didn’t have school, so there was no need to get up and wait for a call. I closed my eyes and snuggled deeper, willing my body to fall back to sleep.
My mind had other ideas.
Maybe I should just go to take a quick look?
I’d deliberately left the outside light on overnight, in case I woke during the night, and wanted to take a quick peek from upstairs to gauge the snowfall. But I’d slept through and now it was morning. Well, sort of. Still, I could just take a look. But I know myself well enough to know that once I’m up and out of bed, I’m up.
“Go back to sleep,” I told myself. “The snow will still be there when you wake up!”
So, I tried. Really, I did. I lay there beneath the blankets, my eyes closed, sternly telling myself to sleep. I was warm. I was cozy. I was dying to know how much snow there was!
Finally at 4:03 I gave up. I couldn’t resist any longer. I had to know.
I reached for my glasses, put on my robe, and tiptoed out of the bedroom and into the hallway. Then I peeked out of the frosted window to the garden below. Mounds of sparkling white draped everything in sight. My eyes scanned the scene, utterly delighted by how the heavy snowfall transformed the world outside my door. It was absolutely beautiful– a generous gift from Winter, and one that was well worth getting out of bed early!
No matter how old I get, I simply can’t resist the lure of of a fresh snowfall.
Winter’s grip has been fierce in recent weeks. Most days the temperatures struggle to get into the twenties, and that’s not considering the wind-chill. Usually, I can lean into the beauty of winter, and take the cold days in stride, but the consistently below normal temperatures have been making that more challenging than usual. (I may have even complained once or twice.)
This past weekend my lovely, long December break was winding to a close, and I found myself chafing against the unrelenting cold and determined to get outside. I was yearning for an opportunity to do some early morning wandering, filled with fresh air and natural beauty. I knew that once school started back up, my opportunities would be much more limited. So, on Saturday night, the last “free” night, I made up my mind.
“I’m going to go look for snowy owls and walk on the beach tomorrow morning” I announced to my husband.
He looked at me askance. “What’s the temperature supposed to be?”
“I don’t know. Mid-high teens?” I paused and wondered if I should check the forecast more carefully. “You know what?” I said suddenly, defiantly, “I don’t care what the temperature is! I’m going!”
“Ok,” he said. “Wake me up early, and I’ll come with you.” (Wow! I guess we were both feeling a little bit claustrophobic!)
So, shortly after 7 on Sunday morning, bundled up as if heading into the tundra, we set out for the beach. We chose to head to one about an hour south, where snowy owls tend to visit. (Spoiler alert: we didn’t see any.)
When we arrived at the beach, it was snowing and other than a small cluster of birds, the beach was mostly deserted. Thankfully, there wasn’t much wind, but when we got out of the car, the cold slapped us in the face. I wondered if we’d made a mistake.
“Well,” I said, looking at Kurt, “if it’s too bad, we can just drive around.”
We pulled our hats down further and burrowed into our layers. I pulled my hood up over my hat and then tucked my fingers deep into my pockets, cradling two hand warmers . We walked down onto the beach, where the tide’s edge was marked with frozen slush. (You know it’s cold when salt water’s freezing! )
Thankfully, as we walked, we got a bit warmer. Well, a little bit.
Moving along the beach, we approached the flock of birds. Though, I’m not positive, I think they were sanderlings. They huddled along the shoreline, feet encased in bubbling surf, occasionally running a few feet ahead, but mostly standing still. Just looking at them made me even colder.
As we neared, they moved slightly away from us. They seemed a bit sluggish, decidedly less active than usual. One, slightly behind the others, hopped along toward the group, and something about its movement caught my eye.
“Oh, no,” I said, “Do you see that? I think something’s wrong with one of its legs. It looks like it’s only using one of them.”
“Well, a lot of them are only on one leg,” Kurt noted.
“Yeah, but this one only moved on one leg. Did you see it hopping?”
I struggled to catch sight of the bird again, amidst the others. From a distance, I still couldn’t be sure, but one leg looked different. Also, whenever this bird moved, it still hopped from place to place. The others scurried with both legs, and when they stopped, they’d tuck the other leg up, to keep it warm. We watched the birds for several minutes, and I took a few photos, but it was too cold to linger. We wandered away, moving further up the beach, and my attention drifting to other things.
Before long, we decided to call it quits. Our feet were cold, our cheeks vivid pink, and our noses were running. But, hey! We’d gotten some fresh air and we’d gotten outside. It felt like a victory!
Note: Later, when I got home, I was still thinking about that bird. I downloaded my pictures and when I zoomed in a bit, I could clearly see that the its leg was significantly impaired.
I’ve been thinking about it a lot since then. About endurance and survival. About how harsh life can be. It feels like there’s a message in there somewhere. I’m still waiting for it to land.
My weekday morning book is entitled, “Phosphorescence: On Awe, Wonder and Things That Sustain You When the World Goes Dark by Julia Baird. It’s a combination of memoir and scientific findings, and reminds me a bit of Katherine May’s “Wintering”, which I love. I find myself highlighting occasional phrases or passages. Recently, I was struck by these lines, and jotted them down in my notebook: “We spend a lot of time in life trying to make ourselves feel bigger–to project ourselves, occupy space, command attention, demand respect–so much so that we seem to have forgotten how comforting it can be to feel small and experience something greater than ourselves, something unfathomable, unconquerable and mysterious.”
I turned these words over and over in my mind. So often we think of being small in a negative sense. As being disempowered or vulnerable. To make someone feel small is to belittle or demean them. The idea that there is a flip side to this, that such a feeling might be positive, was intriguing to me.
Julia Baird goes on to write, “This sense of smallness seems to be a key to a true experience of awe.” She writes about how architects designed vast interiors in cathedrals to inspire “a sense of smallness, and consequently, awe.” She notes that researchers have tracked people’s reported experiences with awe and found that “on average, they encountered something that inspired awe every three days, such as ‘music played on a street corner at 2 am, individuals standing up to injustice, or autumnal leaves cascading from trees.'”
I mixed these ideas in my mind: feeling small, feeling awe.
Then, I went to the beach:
There is assuredly some comfort and peace to be found in feeling small.
All day yesterday the school hallways buzzed with conjecture and conversation:
What’s the latest forecast?
Do you think we’ll have school tomorrow?
Oooh! It just changed to a Storm Warning! They’re calling for 6-9 inches now!
We have a new superintendent this year and were unsure what his snow day protocol/parameters might be. It created a lot of uncertainty and a certain level of anxiety. Our last superintendent hailed from Texas and tended to be generous doling out snow days, often doing so in advance. Had we gotten spoiled? Would this one be different?
Do you think he’ll let us know the night before?
Do we know if anyone briefed him about the two bus accidents on snowy days last year? (or was it three?)
I spent much of the day “forecast shopping”–aka trying to find the forecast that made a snow day appear most likely. I visited my apple weather app, Wunderground, NOAA, Snow Day Calculator, and the local forecast web sites. Again and again. And yet again. In the evening, my colleagues and I texted back and forth, weighing the odds, noting other schools that had already announced closures.
I fell asleep still not knowing what to expect, but feeling cautiously optimistic…
When I woke there was still no news, but shortly afterward, the call came in…
NO SCHOOL!
The day unfolded before me like a gift. Time immediately slipped into a slower track, and the urge to hurry drifted away. I filled the bird feeders and soon enough the birds arrived and the snow started falling. I watched as finches, chickadees, juncos, cardinals, bluejays, and masses of bluebirds settled in to feast. Sadly a flock of starlings came by as well–such beautiful gluttons! There were downy woodpeckers, titmice and house finches, too. As my eyes kept drifting to the window, I realized that I might be in trouble if I really wanted to get some work done. I was going to have to seriously consider my snow day plans so that I could both enjoy the day and take advantage of the extra time to get ahead on grading.
As I get older and more resistant to working at home, I’ve leaned into bribery. Whenever I have heavy grading to do, I typically buy myself an amazing treat from a local bakery. Almond tea cake with a raspberry glaze anyone? I set it on the table in front of me while I work. Then, I’m allowed to eat it when I’m done. It works really well, and I’m sure that says a lot about me!
So, knowing how effective this is, I created today’s plan:
remain in PJs all day
start up both wood stoves and get the house cozy warm
write a SOL post
make gingerbread (the butter’s already softening!)
score writing prompts (that we quickly rescheduled to complete yesterday in case there was a snow day today)
enjoy a fat slab of warm spicy gingerbread with a cappuccino
finish entering grades and reread/revise drafted comments or get some planning done for tomorrow (Could there be a delay for snowstorm clean up?!?)
read or start a puzzle or watch the birds or take pictures or space out by the wood stove or whatever captures my fancy!
consider opening the party-sized bag of Skinny Pop, but only if I’m not full of gingerbread
The rest of the day will be list-free. Whatever happens, happens. And whatever I’m doing, I’ll be doing in my pajamas…and that includes shoveling! I know that I’ll probably regret this day come June, but for now, I’m all in!
Yesterday afternoon was my first bone density scan. It was scheduled immediately after my annual mammogram. I mean, how much fun can you have in one afternoon, right? At any rate, I walked into the room clutching my thin, purple hospital top, tied to open in front, unsure what to expect.
“We’re just going to get a weight,” said the technician, stopping in front of a scale.
“Okay,” I said, taking off my shoes, wishing I hadn’t worn jeans.
I stepped on the scale and she recorded the number.
“Now a height, “ she said, “and then I have a few questions to ask.” She gestured toward a sort of measuring station. “Stand there.”
I dutifully stood with my back against the wall, and she moved a piece down until it rested on the crown of my head.
“Ok,” she said, “5 feet 4.5 inches.”
Wait! What!
I’d become accustomed to the half inch I’d lost somewhere through the years, but now there was another half inch gone!? What’s up with that!? My mind raced.
I think I was slouching. I’m sure I could have stood up straighter! Why didn’t she tell me to stand up my straightest? Should I ask her to measure again?
Meanwhile, I sat down and responded automatically to the questions she was posing.
“Do you take calcium supplements?” “No.”
“Do you take estrogen?” “No.”
Then after a slew of other questions, she asked, maybe in a fake friendly voice, (Was she trying to rub it in?!) “What is the tallest height you’ve ever been?”
I never expected that I would ever be asked that question. Ever.
In my head all I heard was, “I’m shrinking!” echoing over and over à la Margaret Hamilton.
I turn the last page and set down the book. “North Woods” by Daniel Mason. My thoughts whirl, thinking about the story, or more accurately, the interwoven stories threaded throughout. I ponder time, layers, connections. Think about change. About humans and nature. I read again the NPR review on the back cover: “Gorgeous… a tale of ephemerality and succession, of the way time accrues in layers, like sedimentary soil.” My mind wanders back over all the layers of the book. The interconnected tissue of it all. The strata. This one will stay with me, I think.
Done with reading, I turn to chores. I pull out the old cardboard box that I took from my dad’s house after his death. On it is a label Black, Starr & Gorham, Fifth Avenue, New York. Within it are the components of a three-layer glass and silver tiered dessert stand. What is its story?
I suspect it was a wedding gift for my parents, though I’ll never know. There’s no one to ask now. But the box has been sitting in my closet, neatly tucked away for several years now. I am relatively certain that it was never used. The layers of confetti-ed yellowing paper packaging seem intact. I’m not even sure why I took it with me when we cleaned out the house. About a week ago, though, I realized I might be able to polish it up and use it at the upcoming baby shower for our first grandchild. My parents’ great-grandchild. I liked that idea. I felt the tug of a connection.
Now, I open the box and pull out the pieces. The silver rims are dark with tarnish. The patina of age. A visible record of time’s passing. I take a silver polishing cloth and begin to rub gently. The dark transfers to the cloth. Bit by bit, glowing silver emerges from time’s ravages. I gently work the cloth over and over the dingy surface. I slow down, finding the task deeply soothing. I think about the book again. About the past, the present, the future.
Time. Layers. Change.
After the piece is fully cleaned and temporarily restored to its box, I google the company, Black, Starr & Gorham. What is it’s story?
I learn that, though it’s gone through a variety of names, it is an American jewelry company, operating since 1810. The first article I click on focuses (by chance?) on the construction and subsequent changes over time to the company’s headquarters on Fifth Avenue. The original design, much applauded, was Italian renaissance with an exterior of white marble. But in 1962, the building was sold to a bank company that promised they’d change the interior but leave the exterior unchanged.It was a piecrust promise, for in 1964 the editor of the New York Times lamented, “its finely detailed, elegantly proportioned exterior is being destroyed, and the building will be refaced with a nondescript, banal and ordinary new ‘skin.’ “ And then in 2018, it was again remodeled, acquiring yet another facade.
Time. Layers. Change.
I’m struck by all of this. Feel my thoughts churning, lifting, sifting. Thinking about how the past resides within the present. How change marks us and our surroundings. How the layers mount and shift. How hidden connections, stories, run through all of this. The book, my parents’ tarnished dessert stand, and the continuous remodeling of a building in New York. It all feels strangely connected.
J. limps off the soccer field to the nearby bench. On the field, the game continues, but a cluster of students buzzes about J. I edge closer, trying to gauge if this is a real injury, requiring teacher intervention, or not. I listen to the hum of conversation about J., keeping my distance, not wanting to escalate the injury with an audience, but ready to move if needed.
“Hey, buddy, you good?” a boy asks, clapping his hand on J.’s back.
J, a veteran soccer player and injury milker, shakes his head somberly and clasps his ankle.
Another student stands on one foot and demonstrates how to wiggle his ankle back and forth. “Maybe you can do this,” he suggests. “It helps me with my ankle.”
J. wiggles his foot a few times and grimaces.
A third student commiserates, “Yeah, my wrist still hurts from last night when I was jumping on my bed when I was going to sleep.” He wiggles his wrist tentatively. (I immediately grimace myself, commiserating with his parents!)
(Meanwhile, on an important side note, it was PJ and stuffy day. So, you need to know that this cast of characters is mostly wearing pajamas, and many of them are clutching their beloved small stuffies. It adds a certain nuance to the scene.)
Oblivious to the injury drama, a first grader who’s been showing off his stuffed cat’s skills to me throughout recess, runs in and out of the scene.
“Look, Mrs. Hogan, Kitty flies!” He races by again, and his stuffed cat soars overhead.
Behind me there’s some sort of feral game happening and a young girl in my class is standing still with her head thrown back. “Aroooooooooo! Aaaaaroooooooooo!!!!” She’s howling like a wolf over and over again. Suddenly, a few kids give chase, and they all race across the playground. Standing by the soccer field, I can hear the intermittent howls.
“Look, Mrs. Hogan, Kitty can jump off the pirate ship!” the first grader enthuses as he zooms past, and poor Kitty goes sailing through the air again.
Back at the bench, another boy approaches J. (who, by the way, is looking pretty perky at this point). The boy holds out his hand. Nestled in it is a rock. A large piece of nondescript gravel from the strip of rocks that edges the building.
“This rock might cure you,” says the budding shaman, solemnly handing it over. J. takes it and looks at it carefully, turning it over and over. He looks a bit confused, but game.
I realize suddenly that the howls have ceased and glance over to ensure all’s well in that corner of the recess world. After scanning the playground, I spy Wolf girl. She is lying on the picnic table as still as can be. Several classmates are pretending to dig into her stomach and are apparently eviscerating her with unholy glee. They lift handfuls of imaginary guts to their mouths and dig in.
J, miraculously cured (Was it the rock?), suddenly stands up and races back onto the soccer field with no trace of a limp. The rock falls to the ground, bounces once or twice, and then is still. The crowd disperses.
Super Kitty flies by, narrowly avoiding a collision with my head.
On a sunlit chilly afternoon last week, the fire department came to visit. This is an annual event, and one that second graders greet with enthusiasm. They are always enthralled by the equipment and excited to share what they already know about fire safety. They also anticipate being able to clamber in and out of the fire truck and ambulance and maybe even try on a helmet. What’s not to love?
After touring the ambulance, we sat on the pavement in front of the fire truck, listening to the fireman talk. Suddenly, a radio squawked to life. In between static, we could hear blips of the incoming transmission, including something about “medical call” and “a four year old.” Everyone started shuffling and whispering, eyes wide, watching the professionals confer and click into gear. Within moments the ambulance crew had quickly departed in response, and the fireman had resumed his presentation. After a few more murmurs of “What’s going on?” and “Did you hear that?”, the kids settled back in to listen.
Except for one of them.
J. was slouched within his hooded sweatshirt, and I could see that he was still talking to his neighboring classmates, though they were mostly ignoring him, intent on answering the fireman’s questions about “Stop, Drop, and Roll!” J’s a big kid who vacillates between maintaining a tough guy veneer (second grade swagger?) and indulging his penchant for silliness. He can struggle with meeting expectations. I went over to check in.
“What’s up, J.?” I asked him.
“They said it was a four year old,” he said.
I reassured him that it was a medical call and that the ambulance left quickly so that they could help whoever it was who needed them.
“But I’m scared,” he said.
“It’s okay,” I reiterated. “Help is on the way for them.”
“But I thought it was a shooter. Was it a shooter?” he asked in a tremulous voice.
“No, J, it isn’t a shooter,” I said, suddenly struggling to form words. “It was a family who needed help, and help is on the way. You’re okay. We’re all safe.”
“So it’s not a shooter?” he asked.
I rubbed his back and reassured him some more. “No. There’s no shooter, J. That family is getting the help they need, and we’re safe. We’re all okay.”
“Oh, okay” he murmured, “I just thought it was a shooter.”
I sat beside him for the rest of the presentation, stunned and heartbroken, wondering if my words were even true, because in our country, firearms are the leading cause of death in children and adolescents. Our national priorities are horrendously skewed, and I’m really not so sure that we’re all safe and we’re all okay.
I’m struggling with what to write this morning. My early-morning brain is bouncing around like a pinball between bumpers. For years now I’ve deliberately carved morning time out of each day for myself. I’ve gotten up an hour before I need to just so that I have a little space. A quiet space. A breathing space. Just for me. For writing. For pondering and wondering. For word games. For whatever I want.
But these days, school spills in. It’s a bit sneaky. I don’t even realize it’s made inroads until suddenly I discover myself thinking about how to manage rug time, what I should do about so-and-so, and how to manage five behavior charts in a room of 16 students…when I started by wondering if there was a poem to midwife out of my thoughts about fall mornings. Or how I might respond to a poetry photo prompt. Sometimes thinking about school is a mental exercise in curiosity and at other times it feels a bit like a spreading stain. An invasive species of thought.
One of my favorite things about my mornings has always been my commute to school. I get to drive along back country roads through farmland and across a scenic river. It never fails to both settle and lift me. This year, unfortunately, there is a massive construction project underway. Four miles of it. I discovered this when driving to school for our first PD days late in August. After sitting for long, long minutes in traffic repeatedly stopped for one-way travel, I quickly realized that I would have to drive the alternative route to school. The one I take when driving conditions are treacherous. The one that takes me onto 75 mph freeway traffic and then over less-than-scenic roads. I still cross the bridge, but somehow I’m not as primed to appreciate its beautiful view.
I didn’t realize was how much I would miss this commute. How much I needed it.
Early this past Saturday morning, I decided to check out how much progress had been made on the road and also visit my beloved scenery. I was surprised to find that even close to sunrise and on a Saturday, there was a flagger in place and the road was reduced to one-way travel for part of my journey. Still, there wasn’t much traffic, and once I was through that, I was able to settle in and enjoy the views.
The scenery did not disappoint.
After considering the pros and cons, I decided I’ll be driving that way again this morning. Even with the potential for delays, it’s 100% worth it.
There once was a woman whose house was home to far more than one mouse Though she bade them to leave they ignored heartfelt pleas, so she had no choice but to de-louse
Bold husband concocted his snares tightly wired and placed with great care Snap! Snap! went the traps and that ended that. New mousies had best be bewares!!
Nix the comfort zone 