Tag Archives: Slice of Life

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Snow Buzz and a little Bribery

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:

  1. remain in PJs all day
  2. start up both wood stoves and get the house cozy warm
  3. write a SOL post
  4. make gingerbread (the butter’s already softening!)
  5. score writing prompts (that we quickly rescheduled to complete yesterday in case there was a snow day today)
  6. enjoy a fat slab of warm spicy gingerbread with a cappuccino
  7. finish entering grades and reread/revise drafted comments or get some planning done for tomorrow (Could there be a delay for snowstorm clean up?!?)
  8. read or start a puzzle or watch the birds or take pictures or space out by the wood stove or whatever captures my fancy!
  9. 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!

Snow days are such a gift!

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Where did it go?

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. 

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Time. Layers. Change.

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. 

And then there’s a baby coming.

Time. Layers. Change.

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SOL: First and Second Grade Recess

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.

Such is second grade recess.

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SOL: Safety

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.

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A rambling sort of slice

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.

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A Cautionary Tale

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!!

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Small Town USA

We turned the corner and the activity unfolded before us. Buffed and beautified tractors, decorated trailers and a variety of vehicles lined the street. Costumed people gathered in clusters and one woman practiced pulling a freshly painted metal pig.

“Careful!” someone called out, “It’s still wet under the loins!”

Everyone was getting ready for the annual Bowdoinham Days parade. As we walked past, we waved and called out compliments and greetings. As we passed one festooned “float”, a woman noticed us walking by and said to a nearby child, “Hey, Chase, why don’t you practice throwing them some candy!”

“You want to practice throwing candy at us!? Yes!” I enthused, stopping in my tracks.

Chase leapt into action. He dug his hands into a bucket of candies, then turned and threw a fistful in our direction. I kept my eyes on the trajectory of a golden package of peanut M&Ms and was rewarded as it fell right into my outstretched hand. Yes! I pumped my fist and Chase jumped up and down in delight.

“Thanks!” we called as we continued on our way, heading toward the official parade route.

As we walked, we saw more and more people lining up along the streets. Kids squealed and ran along the sidewalks, jumping up and down in excitement as they greeted their friends. Adults stopped to talk, share their news, and maybe buy a piece of prize-winning pie to support our local school. Everywhere there was such a nice buzz of positive community energy.

Finally, there was a whoop and wail from the escorting police cars, and the parade began. This parade is my favorite thing ever! It’s simply the best. Our town of slightly over 3,000 people has deep agrarian roots and a rich network of active farms. As the tractors trundled down the parade route, they threw some candy, but lots and lots of veggies. This year the choice options were red peppers, carrots and, maybe not so wisely, cherry tomatoes. They also throw marigolds and soon the route was paved with orange petals and flower heads. This year the library stepped up their game and handed out picture books to children. One local farm deviated from the veggie plan and handed out huge glowing sunflowers to spectators. (If you look carefully in the tractor pictures you’ll see flying tomatoes and red peppers!)

And then there are the beloved zucchini races. We weren’t able to stay and see them this year, but stopped by to check out the contestants.

There’s plenty more to do: a chicken run, food trucks, arts and crafts, a fundraising yard sale, lobster crate races, rubber duck racing, live music and fireworks. They were even selling jars of honey harvested from the hives installed outside the local library! It was small town unity and heart on full display, and a most welcome antidote to these divisive times.

Eventually, we walked back up to our home, smiling the whole way, picking up a few lost carrots, and enthusing about what a great morning it had been.

The next evening I made soup with our veggie prizes while the sunflower glowed in my kitchen window.

It was truly a weekend to savor.

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On the Brink of School

“What do you want to do on the last weekend before school starts?” Kurt asked me this past Saturday morning.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “Let me think about it.”

This is a tougher question than it may seem. I’ve definitely felt the ratcheting up of tension over the past week–the feeling of the walls closing in and everything funneling inexorably toward the onset of the tyranny of the school year. Did I want to do something big and bold or something low-key and relaxed?

After thinking for a while, I suggested, “Why don’t we get up early tomorrow and go to Morse Mountain?”

“Sure,” Kurt said, “Why don’t we take a picnic?”

“Perfect!” I said.

Saturday was busy with errands and some family visits, but we tucked in time to swing by the store and pick up some goodies for our upcoming picnic: baguette, goat cheese, apples, grapes, etc. I couldn’t remember the last time I had even been on a picnic, and my anticipation was mounting.

“This is such a great idea!” I said more than once to Kurt.

On Sunday we were packed and out the door by shortly after 8 am. Morse Mountain is one of our favorite places along the Maine coast. You hike about two miles in and are then rewarded with an amazing stretch of pristine beach. The distance to the beach, along with limited parking, means that it is never crowded and it is always beautiful.

We set off cheerfully, picnic foods and blanket stowed in our backpacks. We hiked up and down through forest and past a few marshy areas. We detoured up for a scenic view from the summit, and then traveled back down toward the beach.

Finally, the trail opened up from forest to oceanside. As soon as I set foot on the beach, I knew we’d done the right thing. It felt as if my whole being simply expanded along with the view. It was the perfect place to be. An antidote to all things closed-in and constricting.

“This,” I said to Kurt, gesturing at the scene before us. “This is what I’m going to picture in the coming weeks and months, whenever I feel like I’m starting to frazzle and unravel.”

We set off, walking barefoot along the shore. A huge raft of some kind of ducks was floating along, a dark mass of bodies, moving parallel to the shore. There had to be hundreds of them! Next, we were delighted to see dozens of seal heads popping in and out of the water. The sun was warm on our skin, but there was a hint of chill in the breeze. The skies were cobalt blue, and the small bits and bobs abandoned by the receding tide yielded lots of treasures, and created fascinating patterns. Every so often we stopped to pick up sand dollars (mostly in pieces) and shells. We let the sound of the surf and our splashing feet wash over us.

Over and over again I thought, “Yes, this is where I need to be right now.”

After a long hunger-ripening walk, we stopped to spread our blanket and set up our picnic. Reclining on the sand, we stared at the ocean and chatted about this and that. Mostly we just soaked up the sun and the view.

“It’s going to be hard to leave,” I finally said, after we were done eating.

“Yeah,” Kurt agreed.

Eventually, heaving a few sighs, we packed up. Then, after one long backward glance at the ocean, we turned toward the trailhead and the two-mile return hike.

It was time to get going.

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Pondering My Vision

I’ve been overly focused on my eyes lately. On seeing. On not seeing.

Late this past April my retina tore. Surgery followed and my vision was regained–mostly. My right pupil remains dilated, which is normal–up to a point. It may still recover. It may not. I’m nearing the border between optimism and realism on that front.

The retinal surgery is traumatic to the eye, and kickstarts cataract growth. While planning for that next surgery to my right eye, the doctor discovered I was overachieving–having naturally created another less severe but surgery-qualifying cataract in my left eye.

The right eye surgery wasn’t debatable, and I had that completed a few weeks ago. At my follow up appointment, I was unsure if I wanted to have the left eye done, though I had, at the doctor’s suggestion, already scheduled it for the following week. “You can always cancel it,” he’d told me.

I debated the pros and cons with the tech for quite some time. Finally, she handed me a pad of paper.

“Close your left eye and look at this,” she said.

I did.

“What color is it?”

“White,” I said.

“Ok, now close your right eye and look at it,” she said. “What color is it?”

My jaw dropped. “Whoa! It’s sepia!” I said.

I suddenly saw what I hadn’t even known I was seeing. Or not seeing.

So, the following week I had the second cataract surgery on my left eye.

A few days after that, my husband called me to the window. “Look at all the blue jays!” he said. “I’ve never seen so many together!”

I looked out the window at a dozen or more jays crowding the feeder, scattered across the lawn, and breaking off to fly up into the nearby trees. “Wow! They are so blue right now!” I said, wondering about the afternoon light and how it was creating that impression. Until I realized it wasn’t just the light, it was my “restored” vision. I sat for long moments drinking in the vibrant blues.

These days I perch on the edge of returning to school and its relentless pace, and I am also more and more aware that I am nearing the far edge of middle age. I ponder what I see in this world. And in my life. And the choices I have made and will make. I wonder what I haven’t seen. What blocks me from seeing. What I’m missing.

I keep wondering how I didn’t know what I wasn’t seeing. I imagine that the change was gradual, so I simply didn’t notice it. But it makes me think about how often we miss things with unintentional, unacknowledged blindness. About how changing a lens can make all the difference in the world.