Georgia Heard is another of my favorite writers who specializes in encouraging others to write. She has a range of books for teachers and for writers that you may have already discovered. Check out her website at http://georgiaheard.com . Many of her books focus on the teaching of poetry. Perhaps my favorite, however, is Writing Toward Home: Tales and Lessons to Find Your Way (Heinemann), a thin, inspirational volume that encourage us to write from close observation and past personal experiences. She challenges us to see the ordinary in an extraordinary way. On her website she writes: “Whether you are a student, teacher or a poet I believe our challenge is to find the poetry all around us every day. Children are often the best teachers of this. That's one of my goals when I teach poetry is to help every student find the poetry inside.” Perhaps we can try to find what is inside us or buried in our ordinary lives for our journal this week. Last week's post brought were great reads. Thank you for such a wonderful second week. Your goal this week is again two posts.
(Another outstanding Heard publication you may want to check out is The Revision Toolbox which gives all teachers tools for approaching revision with students.)
Okay, I'll go first again!!
ReplyDeleteWhat I am thankful for:
Our time teaching in villages is coming to a close. The lure of grandchildren is calling us back to Fairbanks, our home. As I spend time reflecting on the last five years, I can’t help but smile at the unexpected result of our time in rural Alaska: a deeper, renewed relationship with my husband.
We have spent all the years of our marriage raising our family. Four kids kept us extremely busy for over twenty years. Homeschooling and adventures like bike trips to Valdez, backpacking the Chilkoot, and long driving trips down the Alcan filled the years.
Suddenly, the kids were gone…. I’m not exaggerating the suddenly! Empty nest hit HARD! I had thought I’d always have the kids and their friends around, laughing, planning trips, going on coffee shop dates, but now they were gone to exotic places like New Zealand, Australia, and Norway with friends.
Now, it was just the two of us, and it had never really been just the two of us before. The beginning of our marriage is a story of its own for another time. It’s not a romantic one. Our relationship was headed for disaster from the start, but somehow we survived the tumultuous beginning, survived the divorce threat of the seventh year, and survived the busyness of work, home, bills, and teenagers. Survived is the word for it…did we have what it takes to be alone together for THE REST OF OUR LIVES?
When we decided to completely change our lives by starting new jobs and leaving our home, I wondered if we were making a huge mistake. Could we endure Alaskan winters without our friends, family, the gym, Mocha Dan’s, and our church?
I stood on the runway, watching the small plane leave. I was scared. Scared of a new job, scared of living in such a small community, scared of just the two of us.
Now five years have gone by. The fears were groundless. We haven’t just endured or survived our time alone, we have flourished. There’s a verse in the Bible that talks of God restoring the years that the locust has eaten. That is what we have experienced-restoration. The couple that never had an engagement, a wedding, a honeymoon, or time to relax alone together, has found the romance of all those things after thirty years of marriage. Romance in our fourth decade together…I am grateful for the time we’ve had alone. I’m ready for the next thirty!
I am trying post earlier in order to conquer my fear of writing. As I have done in the past two weeks, the longer I wait, the more work of others I read before my posting and I feel the pressure(?!) builds up!
ReplyDeleteJoyce has inspired me with the idea of "just the two of us" and "kids," so here is my writing for this week:
As the day gets longer and the sun stays out far into the evening compared to a few months ago, my five-year-old child and I have been trying to be active outside everyday. Today we cross-country skied on the nightly lit trail by the ocean. We didn't realize the temperature lowering, but almost all the cars in the parking lot had already gone home when we finally came down the hill (we are very slow moving, but it was only little after seven o’clock). It was very quiet and dark, even though the growling from nearby airport was roaring in the sky and the lights between the trees were still on. Too quiet for just two of us, but we weren’t freezing, because we’re so determined and our heart was like a burning fire, determined to include family physical activities of at least 30-minutes-a-day into our daily schedule. We will make it happen this time, hoping to improve our quality of life and to provide substantial time of working alone on writing for this class as the child deeply goes to sleep staying in own bed while not getting up for water, bandaid, lotion, and other sorts of excuses.
OK, it's done!
Ayumi,
ReplyDeleteYou're doing great! I love the imagery of your post. I could completely picture the scene of you and your five-year-old skiing the evening away.
In Spring
ReplyDeleteThe sun is here. Finally.
Gray-time is receding
The mist-gray clouds cling
To upslope mountains
That are never far away.
Gray cotton skies will always
Return.
But the sun is here.
The sun stabs at us as
It climbs over the morning ridges.
Swaths of gold parry at the land
And dazzle driving eyes
During morning commutes.
In the distance clouds
May mass.
But the sun is here.
To school in the sun.
Return home in the sun.
Shadows contrast
Again.
Deep colors and dimensions appear
In the searing amber sunlight.
Ice and snow crystals twinkle gaily
It’s cold, but doesn’t seem so.
The sun is here.
Winter isn’t over over yet
Dark and gray are only
A large cloud away.
The days are longer
The sun is higher
The sun is longer
The sun is here.
Finally.
The extraordinary in the ordinary . . . .
ReplyDeleteHe waits most days
in the middle
of the road way
white truck appears
he rises
he stretches
yips and barks
he dances.
She returns!
over here
play with me
look at me
talk to me
go too soon
begs please stay out
it’s not that cold
you just arrived
here, play with stick
whatever
he play alone
shoes changed
the blue coat
hat and gloves
He is happy
She is happy
They walk and play
throw stick and talk
It is true love.
When I purchased the kit for 75% off at the tail end of August, I remember thinking, "there is no way this is ever going to grow," but I still took the pot and filled it with soil and carefully planted a handful of itty-bitty seeds in it. Watered it gently. Placed it in the window. Waited.
ReplyDeleteUnbelievably, well into September it began to sprout. Of course, there was no way it would survive the winter, but I kept watch, anyway, to see what it might do.
It kept surprising me. By December, even though the sun had lost its heat weeks ago and it sat in a window through sub-zero days and nights, it continued to grow.
Now, I can bury my hands in it and come away with memories of summer in my mother's garden, even in the dead of winter. Fresh thyme. Thriving through an Alaskan winter as a reminder of the warm days to come.
Moon Over Channel
ReplyDeleteThe plow trucks have been working hard, but my car rattles over washboard ice as I work my way home from the rink. Nearly midnight on a Tuesday night, the highway sleeps under the black sky arching over the winterscape. Rounding the corner near the Yacht Club, I slip my foot off the gas pedal and the car slows as I drift and drink the night.
The triple peaks on Douglas Island tower across the channel and the full moon bleeds down onto the sea below, where its twin gazes back, confident and serene.
I push my foot again toward home, relieved this is home.
Ayumi has influenced me with her idea of taking inspiration from ideas in another classmates writing, and Joyce has inspired me with her topic of “What I am thankful for” - so here goes!
ReplyDeleteI am Thankful For
I am thankful for my loving husband that I don’t always get along with but who loves me and accepts me for who I am, for my playful puppy Olive who gives me unlimited sloppy kisses and frantic tail wags when I come home - no matter how her day went, and for the recent sherbet pink hues that I have noticed filling up the sky on my twenty minute commute to work as the daylight gets longer and longer.
I am thankful for my job security when over dinner with my sister I learn that her husband has just been laid off, for the ability to carry my unborn child to twenty-eight weeks (so far) without the slightest inkling of a complication when a colleague of mine has been unable to conceive, and for the daily conveniences that I now have access to that missed so much when living overseas.
I am thankful for my relationship with my mother that only grows stronger as time goes by, for a job that wears me out on a daily basis but that also brings me great satisfaction, and for the freedom that I have to make choices and decisions that will bring me happiness and fulfillment.
I get a little silly on planes...Here are a couple poems I wrote on my flights.
ReplyDeleteFirst Class at Last—2/23/2011
For just an hour on this flight
I am who I should to be
Upgraded to full status
Second G & T in hand
I float through space
Cushioned in luxury
Pamper by an efficient blond Barbie
No thanks, I already have a pillow
I have introduced myself
To two other first class passengers
Who play solitaire on Ipads
Chubby children with an exclusive toy
Mortgage consultants they say
(In this market and still first class?
Maybe the stimulus package is working)
Educational Consultant, I say
With confidence and a new hairdo
My best clothes—no Salvation Army--
Not uneasy in borrowed robes
Rather joyous, confident
To be rich and well-adjusted
Even if only for this flight
Thank you, Delta Airlines,
For making me-even though
I will not arrive on time-
Who I should be.
Next flight is economy
Row 22, middle seat.
Shared Flight
ReplyDeleteAcross the aisle
He holds two fingers apart
Index and third
Making a gentle prong
To embrace the young son’s hand
Sitting on the other side
Not once
But several times
Throughout the short flight
He squeezes gently
And I invading on privacy
From a row behind
Wonder at connections
Meaning, implied, and explicit
It looks like
Love, reassurance
Or control, dominance
Maybe it’s all the same
The Magnificent Salmon Scene 2 Part 1
ReplyDeleteSam the Funeral director sits at a table on which a coffin rests. Henry, a traveling salesman, enters and peeks in the coffin.
Sam: Hey! I´ve been waitin´ for you.
Henry: Oh, you did a wonderful job.
Sam: I´m sorry, but there´ll be no funeral.
Henry: What?!
Sam: The grave´s dug, and the defunct is as
ready as the embalmer can make him,
but there´ll be no funeral.
Henry: Didn´t I pay you enough?
Sam: It´s not a question of money. For six dollars I’d
plant anybody with a whoop and a holler.
Henry: Isn’t that a Toby Keith song?
Sam: That’s my flat fee, six dollars.
Henry: That’s just enough to buy you a double latte at Thanks a Latte.
Sam: You’re making an espresso joke this early in the show?
Henry: You’d prefer a price of gas joke?
Sam: But anyway, the funeral´s off.
Henry: Well, how d´ya like that?!
Sam: I want him buried. You want him buried.
If he could talk, he´d second the motion.
Henry: That´s as unanimous as you can get.
Sam: Unless you’ve got a roomful of Wisconsin republicans/
Henry: This man has to be buried. Soon. He´s not turning into a nosegay. In fact, this box is starting to smell like the cannery after a double shift.
Sam:I know. I would if l could, but there´s an element in town that objects.
Henry: Objects? To what?
Sam: They say he isn´t fit to be buried there.
Henry: What? In Boot Hill? There´s nothing there but murderers,
cutthroats and barflies. And if they ever felt exclusive,
they´re past it now.
Sam: No, dummy, not Boot Hill, this is Soldotna, remember?
Henry: Oh, right. So what’s the problem with the cemetery?
Sam: Well,
(Just then, two cowboys ride up, leap off their horses and grab the coffin.)
Vin: We’ll take care of this!
Chris: Yes indeed!
Vin: Can I borrow that scatter-gun?
Sam: Uh, this is a fly rod, but you´re more than welcome.
As I struggled to write tonight, I had lots on my mind, but did I dare share those personal private thoughts. Then I remembered—
ReplyDeleteMany years ago, when my first son, Erik, was less than a year old, we lived in a small 8 by 16 foot cabin on the north end of Lake Clark (now Lake Clark National Monument). My husband was off cutting logs for our winter home and I was caring for the baby and dreaming about anything but eating salmon for our next meal. It was spring almost, probably March, as I poured over seed catalogs and looked forward to planting a garden when summer came around and we moved back to another old dilapidated cabin closer to Port Alsworth where our mail was delivered once a week.
My dream was I wanted to move to the states and have apple trees, pear trees, berry bushes, anything I could eat that wasn’t salmon. We had caught hundreds of fish the previous summer. We smoked most of them for dog food for our four legged mode of transportation. The rest we smoked, salted, and canned for our consumption. Even the baby ate some. I have never forgotten that dream of owning my own orchard.
Life didn’t lead me down to the states to live as an adult. I’m now single and know now that I will probably always live up here in the land of northern lights and the midnight sun. With this realization, and the fact that life led me to live in banana belt of Homer, I discovered a place that is ideal for growing those precious trees of my dreams.
Eight years ago, I hunted for a new home to live, right on the ocean shore where it was warmest all winter and my dreams might come true. I was lead to a perfect house at a wonderful price and two acres of glorious hay fields to plant my trees. As soon as I closed on the property in June, I started digging holes in the ground. I purchased my first 7 trees and planted them as described by the tree sales man. Then I built a gigantic moose fence out of 14 foot long four by four all weather wood and heavy metal fencing. It took weeks to get it all done but I was finally fulfilling my dreams.
For the first three years, the trees just tried to hold on and get established. On year four, they started to bloom the most beautiful flowers in spring and I had a few apples to go with it. Each year after my crop increased with 2010 being the giant bananza. I got my first crop that filled my freezer and I am still eating my way through them with luscious apple pies, apple breads, apple tarts, apple dumplings and more. Oh, I have almost forgotten how absolutely sick I was over a diet of salmon when we were trappers before President Carter closed down our only source of income.
Little did I know that my problem would not be the giant moose that walk all around my orchard fence and sample my lilacs for their dinner. It would be another four footed creature that would be far more deadly to my dreams. I had seen their tracks in the hay fields and around my house each day but my garden from last summer was all put up in jars and the freezer so I wasn’t concerned. I had trapped them at Lake Clark, those cute little furry creatures, but they had never harmed me. They had just been food, something different than salmon.
Yesterday, I walked out on my porch to enjoy the afternoon sun for a change and went over to admire my trees that have grown so beautifully large and full now. Much to my amazement, they
had been girdled, not a little but all the way up to the branches at three or four feet off the ground. I screamed inside with sadness and immediately ran to call our local nursery that understood all plant problems and told them what I was observing.
ReplyDelete“Sorry lady, but your trees are dead,” said the experienced gardener. They won’t survive what has happened to them this winter.”
I cried, “There's nothing I can do? Can’t I put tar or something on them to protect them? There has to be something! It is still winter and they’re dormant!” My heart was breaking with sadness at the loss.
“I’m sorry, but they are dead.”
I hung up the phone sadly and couldn’t even look in the direction of my beautiful stately monuments. I had made all the fencing for the big problems, but never dreamed that an unknown number of little rabbits could kill my dreams so drastically.
All last night, I freted about the loss of my trees. Why didn’t the rabbits eat my raspberrys, blueberrys or strawberrys? Why my apple trees? After a sleepless night, I finally came to a level of peace about my problem. I found an answer. I called my sister and told her of the death of my trees and how I had found something good in it all.
“What is good about it? You loved watching those trees grow and give you all the food you have dreamed of for years,” she said.
“You know how I have talked of retiring from teaching next year and how I would have to down size in order to make it if I did that?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Remember I always said I would have to sell our giant house and move?"
"Yes, and then you always said in your next sentence “But I can’t move because I can’t leave my trees." Cheryl remembered.
"Yes, you remembered," I said. "I have put so much into them and have had so much enjoyment in watching then grow and give me food for my family. How can I leave them? Well sis, now I am free to roam again, like I have done most of my life. My years of being settled in Homer must be coming to an end. I guess the doors are opening for change. I sure didn’t see it coming.”
So what is the bottom line in this story? Dream big, plant the orchards of your dreams but be ready when they come crashing down because, something new must be coming your way. I have to admit though, I will miss my wonderful juicy cinnamon flavored sweet fresh apple pies.
opps, I should have written "know," not "now" in paragraph 4. Oh well I missed the "k".
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteLinda,
ReplyDeleteIt is so funny how we get attached to things in our lives. Your trees represented the fulfillment of a dream, so you loved them and received satisfaction (and fruit!) from them. In order to move on, the trees needed to go— the rabbits were the vehicle of release. I am impressed with how quickly you came to the “good” in your loss.
Now there is a freedom to move on, perhaps to that place down south where all those seed catalogue plants grow so easily? I just returned from my son’s house in Hawaii. We ate bananas, grapefruits, and avocados from his yard. He also has oranges, mangoes, and papayas. Maybe a move to an organic farm in Hawaii is next? Sounds pretty good to me right now with all this dreary weather.
At one time I had a small, visqueen greenhouse in my backyard. It was my place of refuge in a chaotic world of teenagers and bills. I’d go out there and baby the plants, talking to them, nurturing them along like I would my teens if they would have let me. Sometimes I would just sit out there and absorb peace and quiet. We went on vacation and the house sitter “forgot” about the greenhouse. Everything died. I remember being surprised at how upset I was, after all, they’re only plants. But I was mourning the loss of my sanctuary. The good? Lessons learned (interview house sitters more thoroughly) and starting over, spring will come again.
Suzanne, your poem made me smile. Rick, the sun IS here.
ReplyDeleteStill mulling over my giant list of things to do, but thought I'd post a few words about skiing and writing, both things I plan to do in great quantities today.
I didn't always live here. I used to live in Anchorage, and before that, Palmer. I've skied since I was 15 or 16, both downhill and cross country. Before that, I had asthma so I couldn't try out for any sports. By high school I tried out for the XC team, and was amazed to find my asthma GONE! - - or at least easily controlled. I could actually ski. In fact, by my senior year I qualified for state, and finally got my big blue "P" for Palmer High School.
I remember what it was like not to see myself as an athlete for all those years. I liken it a bit to all those years I never saw myself as a writer. Now, skiing is a part of my life all winter long, and with this giant back yard of rolling hills and public land, I am in my happy place.
As far as the writer goes, she is coming out. She writes with her students, and she finds the cadences she recognizes in her beloved, much-read books on the shelf. She practices in her head all the time, and she comes up with amazing ideas for first lines of stories...
"The day was starting to remind her of a dream about kittens being taken, steaming, out of an oven."
Weird stuff like that... but still.
So this writer, after years of being stifled by literary asthma, is finally realizing that she may be able to get that big blue letter jacket after all.
Joyce,
ReplyDeleteI have thought a lot about Hawaii during my many years in Alaska. Babe Alsworth moved from Lake Clark to an organtic farm on the big island when he retired from being a bush pilot at Lake Clark in 1978. He loved it until he passed on.
My biggest stumbling block is Erik. He is in the Alaska Waiver program. I would lose that wonderful care if I moved to Hawaii.
Soon it will be summer and I absolutely love our months of daylight all night. Whenever I go to the States in the summer, I can't get back to Alaska fast enough. I miss the birds singing all night outside my bedroom as the sun dips down below the earth horizon to the north and then slowly sneaks back up a couple of hours later, but still blesses us with enough daylight to play a game of baseball at 1:00 am.
Maybe I should just find a smaller home, on the shores of Kachemak Bay with a little lawn and a nice garden spot but then the idea of moving to Hawaii certainly would be a new adventure, something I should be open to now.
Thanks for the reminder about the rest of the big wide world out there. Maybe this summer I should take a trip and reassess my situation.
My writing model for JH
ReplyDelete“Kissing First”
“Beezhe! Run!” shouted Lilith. Lilith loved to encourage her teammates. She wasn’t one to criticize. Her quiet voice didn’t carry much beyond the kids near her, but her enthusiasm was evident in her expression and excited smile.
“Whaddya got? Holy hands?!?” Grumbledia, the pitcher, roared at her teammates. She was the one to criticize. “Get that ball or I’ll smash your face after school!” Quite the opposite of Lilith, Grumbledia’s voice was heard throughout the school and the village. There were rumors that her voice could make the deaf hear and want to be deaf again.
Lilith trembled slightly as she stepped up to the plate. The bases were loaded with only one out remaining. She would make or break their game.
“Hey, Lilith, would you stand up when you kick?” Grumbledia liked to make fun of how short Lilith was. Grumbledia towered over most students and loved to use this to intimidate the vertically challenged.
Lilith blushed mightily, but recalled what her mother said about those that say hurtful things. “Lilith, mean people are that way because inside they are themselves hurting. When someone is mean to you, remember this.” Lilith remembered this and forced herself to smile at Grumbledia.
“Kick the ball lightly, Lilywart. If you kick it hard, I’ll catch it, and then you’ll be out and the game over. I don’t care if I lose; I just want the game to last longer,” Grumbledia grumbled her advice.
Lilith, unsure of herself and indecisive to boot, regarded the pitcher’s advice as a command. Although she knew she could kick the ball with a fierceness that often floored her classmates, Lilith chose to take the advice of her opponent and gently kissed the ball with the tip of her sandal when the ball rolled towards her.
Grumbledia was ready. Before Lilith had taken two steps toward first base, Grumbledia had the ball in her hands and was charging full speed toward innocent Lilith. When their bodies collided, Lilith was the first to topple. Grumbledia landed triumphantly and solidly on Lilith’s small frame. Lilith kissed the muddy pavement of first base with her whole face.
Never take advice from an opponent.
Poetry was the focus in fourth grade this week. It was not our first venture into this genre but definitely the most successful. Second quarter I tortured the children by making them gasp! memorize and recite poetry to each other. Oh the horrors! And yet they did it and loved it (ok, liked it.) This time around we focused more on the language and writing of poetry. I love listening to metaphors and similes from10 year olds. Good for lots of laughs, giggles and ewwws but they are painting a picture and the rest of us see it and that’s what I want.
ReplyDeleteMy favorite moment of the week was when my husband stopped in. We were in the middle of writing winter haikus. Just the simple 5-7-5 variety and the sampling I had heard so far was so bad. Trivial, lots of cold snow falling down types of lines. I couldn’t take another and so I asked him to write one. It was as bad as the kids! So we sat, looked out the window, brainstormed, and sat some more. Just thinking.
Round Two was so much better- taking the time instead of always in a hurry to be done and right and focused on the syllables, forgetting the imagery. Even my husband’s was so much better. (I left it at school and will post his and some others on Monday.) Sometimes time and quiet and more time is worth it.
Magnificent Salmon, Scene 2, Part 2
ReplyDeleteSam: Uh, this is a fly rod, but you´re more than welcome.
Vin: Thanks. Ooo, 12 pound test. That should do for this job.
(A crowd starts to gather from various windows and doors to watch the spectacle as the cowboys start out for the cemetery.)
Sam: Hey! Wait a minute there.
You two go sashayin’ down Binkley street like you own the place, no tellin’ what might happen. I’m tellin’ ya, the good folks of Soldotna don’t want that kind of thing in their cemetery. This coffin cost
me $20. It´s the only one in the county. I´ll be darned if l let it be shot at.
A Bystander: I´ll pay for the damages. I wanna see this.
Another bystander: Me, too!
Vin: Never rode shotgun to a cemetery before.
Chris: Let her buck.
Vin: New in town?
Chris: Yeah. Saw that “Sarah Palin’s Alaska” on the TV and knew I wanted to be a part of this untamed wilderness. Wanted to get in on that PFD money, too.
Vin: Where are you from?
Chris: Dodge. You?
Vin: Tombstone.
Bystander 3: Where ya think yer goin’ with that coffin? Cheechakos!
(Vin lunges at him with his fly rod.)
Chris: Easy. Just wind.
Vin: We´ll get there.
Chris: It’s not gettin´ up there that bothers me. It´s stayin´ up there that I mind. Also, I think we made a wrong turn. Isn’t this graveyard supposed to be hear overlooking the river?
Magnificent Salmon, Scene 2 Part 3
ReplyDeleteVin: (He spots a wealthy Soldotna with a dip net coming towards them.) Comin´ up behind us on the left.
Chris: I don´t think so.
Wealthy Soldotnan: Don’t even think about planting that thing here! This property is way too valuable to waste on something as inconsequential as a final resting place for the pioneers of this community! Get the hell outa here! (He wields his net.)
Vin: Oh yeah? I’ll show you, ya swell! (He rigs his reel for a deadly cast.)
Chris: Easy, Vin. Let him be. This ain’t even the graveyard. We got to go out some God-forsaken place called Funny River. They say the folks are a bit….different out there.
Vin: Oh, yeah? (With menace, wielding his fly rod) Well, I don’t care how different they are-we all bleed the same!
Chris: What’s that supposed to mean?
Vin: It just means that—oh, I dunno, I just thought it sounded good. Let’s go.
Funny river pilot: Boys, why don´t you just turn around
now - save yourselves a lot of trouble?
(A small group of golfers and pilots has entered.)
Vin: The reception committee is forming.
Funny river golfer: Hold it.
Chris: Anything wrong?
Pilot: Turn that box around and head back to town. You’ll know you’re there when you see an inspirational message on the lumberyard sign.
Golfer: Oh, I love those! Like last week, it said "Happiness is a perfume you cannot pour on others without getting a few drops on yourself."
All: Ewww.
Vin: We’re going to bury this departed soul here right now. What do you pretty boys gonna do about it?
Golfer: Look. We don’t have any problem with you boys comin’ out from town to see us. Why don’t we go play nine holes? I just snowplowed all the greens, put out a scare-raven, and shot a moose on the back nine with my pellet gun. Whattya say?
Pilot: Or, I could take you two on a gorgeous flightseeing trip—I’d show you glaciers, and ice, and water, and more glaciers, and more ice, and snow, and more glaciers...
Chris: Why do you all give a damn whether we bury this here?
Vin: Isn’t this the gosh darn graveyard?
(The golfer and the pilot look at each other as a plane sound effect goes overhead.)
Pilot: (Holds the back of his hand to Vin’s forehead.) You boys drunk any water from any suspicious lookin’ creeks? This one must have the beaver fever.
Golfer: Ooh! I have it too! (Justin Beiber song, whatever that might be, starts playing.) I’ve seen the Justin Beiber experience nine times. In three-D! So that means I’ve seen it 3 times cubed, right?
All: Eww.
Pilot: Why would you think this airstrip is a good place for a cemetery? That’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard. Except for releasing a Justin Beiber Experience Directors’ cut.
Golfer: You’ve got a body in there?
Vin: Well, yeah.
Golfer: Are you sure?
Chris: Look, they said in town no one wanted this buried anywhere near their house or place of business. Being Bad-A cowboys, we said we’d right this wrong, fix this injustice, give this poor sap his final resting place.
Pilot: So you didn’t ask why they didn’t want this disposed of near any place of habitation?
Vin: No, we just saw injustice and felt compelled to be heroic. That’s—what we do.
Golfer: (He is taking the lid off the coffin.) I’ll tell you why nobody wanted this in town.
Chris and Vin: Hey!
Golfer: (Pulls Whappy the stuffed fish out of the coffin.) Fish waste has to be double bagged.
Suddenly, Magnificent Seven theme blasts triumphantly. Black out.
Thank you, Ayumi and Rick, for inspiring me to write about spring.
ReplyDeleteSpring is not simply my favorite season; spring lives in me and smiles quietly even in the darkest days of the year. I had loved spring even when I did not know that yet. I had loved spring long before I knew why.
February. Days are getting longer. Cheerful drip-drips from the icicles on the roof of our house are the exuberant interlude, signaling that the spring symphony soon will fill the air with the happy sounds of giggling streams of melted snow and bird songs everywhere. A little girl, I am smiling at the sun. My eyes closed, I am soaking up its gentle warmth, and feel my entire body tickle with happiness; like a light balloon, I lift off the ground and spin higher and higher to the cloudless blue…
Each year, with the month of March approaching, my freckles would get brighter. No matter how strong I had hated my freckles at 13, I would never blame spring for them.
February. Mother Nature is still asleep, but her dream is getting lighter. She knows the spring will soon come and smiles in anticipation of her arrival.
February. I put on my sunglasses and look at the piercing blue of the sky, at the brightening green of spruce needles, at the sun bouncing off the birch bark, at the grayish prickly scales of melting away winter and exhale, “BEAUTIFUL!”
I know why I love spring: Spring always keeps her promises the best is yet to come.
Sondra,
ReplyDeleteI loved your "Thank you, Delta Airlines" poem!
I remember my first time flying with an upgraded ticket. Basking in unknown before luxury of leather seats, leg room, neck rests, arm tables, and "free" drinks, I have to admit, raised my own coolness factor and gave a different perspective on hardships of travel. As I was savoring a glass of red wine, enjoying my new surroundings, I thought that I could endure flying first class more frequently. A glance back at the curtain, separating us from the economy class- that became “them”, all of a sudden-, gave me a slightly unsettling feeling, similar to guilt. For the first time, the division of classes was so obvious.
Although travelling first class was a very pleasant experience, the true hardship for me was to estimate how many teacher salaries it would take to secure my sense of new belonging.
Bit o’ rambles
ReplyDeleteJoyce – I enjoyed your thoughts. I taught in the Bush, too. It was a wonderful experience and one that was shortened for some legitimate (at the time) reasons. But, I find myself missing the slower paced, pause-filled bush / Alaska native classroom.
Linda, please post a picture of your trees! I think finding home is an on-going process – as we age, our needs change, people come and go in our lives – of necessity that idea of home must change, too.
Jenny – the beginning “I didn’t always live here”. Inspired my on-going inside my head composition, I’ve recently begun many sentences with I didn’t always . . . . I didn’t always write. I didn’t always appreciate life. I didn’t always have gray hair! I didn’t always live with a dog.
That dog! I’ve been trying to compose prose about him without being overly cheesy and juvenile. I randomly wrote the poem I posted earlier and currently, I’m working on a poem about Pitt with students. I’m using Wallace Stevens “Thirteen Ways of Looking At A Blackbird” as inspiration. Hmmm . . . I’ve always been hesitant with poetry, very interesting to find voice in an unexpected medium.
Looked at everyone’s writing and found a safe topic to write about. The small talk of the budding spring we all can perambulate within. Spring break is next week, and that gives life perceived constancy, the unbetraying change of seasons, scenery, school quarters. It brings to the conscious foreground the rising school action, the climax, and the resolution of the tests, followed by teaching some good stuff we’ve been putting off until “after the tests”, taking down and boxing up the classroom, printing reports, light key chain, a discounted ticket someplace warm caught on sale and much anticipated for months. This is the time to give that unread book that is nudging from the shelf an anticipatory glance.
ReplyDeleteThen there’s a photo of a man in a yoga posture on the floor in Madison. I could have wondered what he was thinking, but I know meditation has no thought, just self-induced unlabored bliss, regardless of all the reporters and orders to vacate the building. There’s our Egyptian-born nurse Salwa I give hugs to.
There's so much out there not to talk about...
Marina,
ReplyDeleteYour comments about spring made me smile. Thank you!
After reading Marina's post, I pondered on the beautiful images she shared. Yet I feel a sense of guilt; I am a pariah of nature. I do not like spring.
ReplyDeleteI cannot articulate the reason, but by mid-March, I begin to get a sense of grumpiness and by mid-April I am often a full-blown bitch on wheels (just ask my husband.) Is it anger that winter seems still with us? Is it impatience for the long, free days of summer? While others talk about rebirth, flowering, the awakening of life, my natural sense of optimism departs and I find myself irritable, impatient, dissatisfied with myself.
Am I waiting for something to awaken in myself? Is my inner psychoanalyst working overtime sending messages that I am not flowering to my best ability? Did I not relax enough in the winter, and spring reminds me I am not ready to bustle through the good weather? Am I really a pessimist and spring is my true personality?
The cold, blowing, sharp winds of winter; moist, chilling rains of fall; temperate, high overcast evenings of summer: these I relish.
Perhaps this spring will reveal to me some of positives, the budding new hope that others see. Perhaps!
Reflections on the Potty Stool
ReplyDeleteMy daughter Jessica and her daughters visited us last week. They live in Oregon, and Jessica usually spends a week with us during February. Her daughters, Madeleine and Olivia, are three and nine months, respectively.
While cleaning the house today, I noticed that the potty stool was in the main bathroom. I brought it up from the downstairs bathroom before the visit. It stays downstairs because that’s where son Adam, his wife and their two boys live when they come over from France for the salmon season.
I built the potty stool in early 1982 so that our three sons could use an adult toilet. It’s a humble thing: stained wood, with cracks, gouges, and scratches. It’s had a hard life. It’s actually recycled wood.
When we bought our first house in the early 1970s, we were just out of college. We decorated it like two college kids would decorate a dorm room. We bought metal tracks and 1 by 12 pine boards, which I cut into shelves, stained, and mounted on the living room wall for our stereo and book collection (most of which were favorite college texts). When I joined the Coast Guard a few years later, we moved the shelves with us. They graced apartment walls in Brooklyn and Governors Island, New York; and Port Townsend, Washington. The Coast Guard always dutifully moved our stuff, no matter how out of date or worn it was.
We finally outgrew track mounted shelving when we bought our second house in Mountlake Terrace, Washington in 1982. The neglected shelves were leaning against the wall in the garage, when I walked in one Saturday, wondering how to contain our eager, potty-training sons in the bathroom. Part of the problem was the toilet was just too high for them. I thought about making a stool and then I saw the shelving…
What resulted was the best thing that I have ever built. We have always done our own remodeling. However, I’m not a very good finish carpenter. My miter joints define “Close enough for government work.” I try, but I’m not one of those people who can massage the saw and make the wood do what I want it to do. The stool is made from 1 by 12 pine stained some forgotten shade of medium brown. The legs taper toward the seat. I cut compound tapering mitre joints with a cheap plastic mitre box and a cheaper backsaw missing teeth where they were most needed. I used gussets and wood screws to hold the miters together. The seat sits on cleats with hidden wood screws holding it to the legs. I chased all the edges with a rounding bit in my router and, surprisingly, didn’t screw that up, either. The stool is about nine inches high and about 11 inches square (at least it used to be).
The project took most of a Saturday afternoon. Even though it came out better than I thought it would, I saw it as a disposable item. Something we’d use until the three boys were tall enough to stand on their own in front of the toilet.
Then, I needed it in the garage. We owned a 1977 VW van for fourteen years. It crossed the U.S. three times and helped us raise the kids. VWs of that era required the engine be removed for many maintenance procedures. The potty stool turned out to be an ideal height to sit on while preparing and dropping the van’s engine. When the engine was ready to lower, the stool also made an ideal support for the engine. I’d ease the pump down and then pull the engine out from under the vehicle. Then, I could slide the engine onto the stool, where it safely rested while I tweaked, adjusted, and replaced whatever was on the work list that day.
Reflections on a Potty Stool Part 2
ReplyDeleteAs the boys grew, the stool eventually moved to the garage, where it did yeoman duty, even after we retired the faithful VW van. Over time, the seat wore oil and grease stains. The engine came down off center and too fast once, which cracked the seat along one edge. The once tight gussets were loose and the cleats that fastened the seat were cracked, with stripped screws. The stool sat forgotten under the workbench, much the worse for wear.
Adam lives in France. His wife is a university professor there. He works on racing sailboats. They come to Juneau for the summers, where he has a fishing boat. When they returned last year, Eliot was two and needed the potty stool. I retrieved it from the garage and restored it as well as I could. I should have replaced the seat, but I just couldn’t throw that old wood away. I glued all the joints with epoxy and tightened the screws. I used degreaser to clean the grease, but I just couldn’t sand off that old stain. It could look much better, but it’s an old friend that is better kept in original, if not quite stellar condition. Adam was touched when he saw the stool.
The faithful stool is now serving another generation.
Rick, carpentry may not be your calling, but you massage the words to get them to do what you want them to do. Thank you for a good bedtime story.
ReplyDeleteBeing gone a week can really mess with a routine. I am a new teacher and this last week was my first week away from my students so that I could attend a conference. I am having a hard time getting back in the swing of things. Unpacking, doing laundry, doing this week's lesson plans, and grading papers. I didn't realize how much my life revolves around school sometimes, especially out here in the bush.
ReplyDeleteThe whole week before leaving I made sub notes, lesson plans, and copies. After getting all the sub notes ready and then making sure that all the materials were ready for my fourth graders to have a successful week I thought I was ready to go. I then began second guessing myself through out the whole time I was gone. Calling, skyping, and texting other staff members to find out if my students had ran the sub out or if the sub was having a hard time understanding what I wrote in the sub notes. I really didn't have much to worry about, however, I feel like that was what I did. :) I came back Friday evening to a very clean classroom, all of the students work was even turned in. They even made sure to wash their desktops off. Wow, maybe I should leave more often! I didn't expect them to put their chairs up, let alone wash their desks. They even wrote fantastic color poetry!! Maybe I am having an effect on them. I will have to see what happens when they arrive in a couple of hours.
One last, hectic week before Spring Break! It seems that no matter how hard I try to be on top of assessment, there is always some juggling to be done at the very last minute. In kindergarten there are really no assessments that can be done whole group or even small group. You really have to sit down one on one with every student for each task. That doesn't seem so bad until you consider, "What is the rest of the class doing?" Third quarter assessments always seem to be the worst. It is always cold and flu season so I wind up with missing pieces from lots of different kids. One will have missed the ones I did one day, one will miss some from another day, one will have been out so long they have missed everything! Four more days to try to get everyone caught up and then, for me, Spring is here!
ReplyDeleteBorn the eighth of fourteen kids, I imagine my mother gained her centered mind and balanced focus from observing the seven before her and the six that followed after her. Statistically, her family should have experienced more dysfunction than what she ultimately lived through, but somehow, there were foundational values that helped guide them through the bulk of it. What they weren’t prepared for seemed to polish a finish of resilience on a few of my mother’s siblings, something she partook in as well.
ReplyDeleteMy uncle Matt was the youngest of the fourteen, constantly finding himself trying to one up his competitive brothers to show them he was a man, too. The twenty-five year gap between him and his brother Michael, left plenty of time for Matt to find something to do to prove he could be successful and make his family proud, too. After all, he was the youngest of a group of lawyers, accountants, teachers and nurses. Scattered between each of those professions, his siblings were living respectable lives, raising children of their own to carry on the family names and values; proving that determination, vision and a close relationship with the church could make any nobody a somebody. But in Matt’s eyes, no matter how hard he tried, he was always dealt a blow that turned his two steps forward progress into a race back to the starting line setback. What he wasn’t recognizing is that there were no shortcuts to gaining respect for a job well done, other than doing the job assigned well. He was smart and believed in working smarter, not harder. But soon, that mentality led to cutting corners, showing that there was a difference between efficiency and carelessness. As a result, Matt began feeling a sense of catch-up he couldn’t get away from.
To Amy L.:
ReplyDeleteI about lost it when I read your response to Marina's post. You are hilarious! And you are not alone! In fact, I think I beat you to the punch in the sense that it's only February and I'm feeling the defeat that spring must bring to drain the very worst out of me. Just last night I had one of those heart-to-hearts with my husband, probably the very worst thing I could initiate, discussing what I could do to be happy with who I am, the job I do and the people I surround myself with. Never, I repeat, never, ask your husband to seek clarity out of the mucky waters that fill your head during this winter-to-spring transition. No matter what he says, you won't find solace in his honesty or attempts to make you feel better! At least I didn't!
Anyway, Amy, I'm thinking that a glass of wine and a good long book might remedy my mood over the course of the next three months to prepare me for the sunshine ahead. I hope I can limit myself to one glass of wine, and Amazon can deliver a dozen or so books, so as to keep my mind wandering away to someone else's life of merriment or disfunction.
4th grade Haiku:
ReplyDeleteonce the snow was white
then it was yellow dog stuff
then it just melted
Anyone inspired? It seems they just can't help it!
husband's:
sun shining brightly
blue sky spectacular
snow is white cotton
mine:
fingers tingling red
eyelashes frosted over
hot tea warms the soul
Haikus fit my succinct writing style. I like it!
Zan- I loved the 4th grade Haiku! I reminds me of my students, they do say and do the funniest things. I was reading some of my students' color poems this morning and I wonder how they perceive things sometimes. It is a lot different from the way I perceive them that is for sure.
ReplyDeleteHere is one of my student's poems just written this morning:
Purple tastes like grapes.
Purple feels like a book.
Purple sounds like a paper.
Purple smells like huckleberries.
Purple looks like love.
All this talk about spring makes me realize that I still am struggling with living in Anchorage. See, where I come from, spring is already well on its way. Daffodils are sprouting there. Trees have buds.
ReplyDeleteHere, it is still winter. Yes, the days are longer and I can feel the sun's heat again. These facts seem small when faced with -4 on the thermometer this morning.
The real issue is that Anchorage is still not "home" to me. Even after almost 3 years of living here, when I refer to home I'm speaking of where I am from, not where I live now. I miss Oregon so badly it makes it hard to breathe sometimes. I miss my family, all of whom live in the Pacific Northwest. I miss the rain. The sound of it. The smell of it. I miss the woods, the rivers, the streams, the way that no matter what the season there is always something growing.
So, while I am happy to know that spring is on its way here, I greet the season with melancholy, too. Anchorage was a practical move, a good move for many reasons (says my head). If only I could get my heart to agree.
Stacey, I am going to ramble a bit after reading what you wrote about where you call "home". I just came back to Twin Hills from Anchorage for a conference. It was the second time I have traveled away from Twin Hills since I moved here. The other trip was to San Diego in December. Both times I have traveled, I was of course asked where I was from. It was a great feeling to say..."I'm from Twin Hills, Alaska". I was apprehensive when my husband and I decided to move to somewhere so remote, but it is really starting to feel like home. Even though I was so excited to be in Anchorage and actually shop (oh and attend a conference :-)), I was SO ready to get home to quiet Twin Hills. I've gotten used to not driving, I've gotten used to no traffic, I've gotten used to knowing everyone I see.
ReplyDeleteFor Valentine's Day, I had my students write their own versions of "Roses are Red" to put in the Valentines they were making for their classmates. Here's my example...
ReplyDeleteSalmonberries are Pink,
Ptarmigan coo,
Salmon are delightful,
And so are you.
They had to follow the rhyming pattern and word use pattern of the original poem.
Last month my kindergarten students made their first attempt at non-rhyming poetry. We didn't have any requirements about syllable patterns, etc. They brainstormed words that remind them of a season then used those words to create their poem.
ReplyDeleteHere are a couple:
SPRING
Flying kites
Playing in the mud
Flowers growing
Bugs
WINTER
Making snowmen
Building snow forts
Shivering
Drinking hot cocoa
I have been working on voice and what we call wonderful words with my sixth graders. I pulled out some pictures and they chose one they liked. This is a poem about one of the pictures.
ReplyDeleteA Beautiful Night
The lights shine bright,
Their colors forever twinkling
They're snakes in the sky
They're night lights to the world
The lights shimmer,
They ripple and they wave
They're never ending thread,
That glints in the moonlight.
Rich hues of green and pink,
Purple and blue.
These are the northern lights.
There is a cabin,
Also lit from within.
It is a small world,
Located in a crisp, cold universe
There is a pure cloud of snow,
Drifting on the roof.
The wind blows and the northern lights glow,
The cabin is built upon a firm crystal of snow.
The weekend was beautiful, crisp and sunny. I looked at my snowshoes standing alone in a corner in the garage. It seemed they were saying, "Take some time and enjoy this day; work will wait." I hesitated for just a moment tempted by the idea of being outside gliding along on my snowshoes free like the wind. It was but a fleeting thought as I continued on to get into my car and go to school. Spring will be here soon!!!
"Perhaps we can try to find what is inside us. . ." Sondra wrote.
ReplyDeleteWhat's inside me is a 6 1/2 month old boy who really is beginning to enjoy kicking me in the ribs. Hopefully not an omen of things to come! I'm really struggling with how in the world my family (husband, dog, baby, me) are going to balance teaching and being a new, first time mother. I know it can be done and feel slightly guilty even worrying about it in the first place because women all around the world today and historically have managed to do quite well in circumstances far more demanding than mine.
We're going to spend tomorrow morning at the hospital getting three hours worth of blood work done. I hate needles.
Depending upon the circumstances, my sense of humor can multiply by the minute, or my patience can quarter by the second. Living in the bush provides daily opportunities for both, constantly testing my ability to find the silver lining. In this case, I couldn't help but laugh hysterically, knowing there was nothing else we could do.
ReplyDeleteAfter a week away at a special ed. conference, I had piles of laundry, and little time to catch up on household chores and lesson plans. I still had a week's worth of homework to grade, and what seemed like a months worth to do between the three courses I am taking this semester. I was overwhelmed and interested in one thing, and one thing only, as my 10:00pm bedtime approached: sleep. I decided that I was going to call it quits and carry-on with the endless work in the morning.
I climbed out of the recliner and headed towards the bathroom to complete my evening routine before climbing into bed. As I hit the lights, I saw a flicker in the dark, windowless bathroom and nothing else. Go figure, one of the most exhausting nights since our move and I can't complete my nightly ritual or morning ritual for that matter, until the bulbs have been changed.
I called my 6'3" husband into the bathroom, begging him to utilize the gift of height God gave him and change the bulbs. We were stocked with energy efficient, compact fluorescent bulbs in the pantry, that we haven't been able to use since the move. I bounced down the stairs, knowing the quicker I retrieved the bulbs, the quicker I could hit the hay.
Low and behold, after making it all the way to the first floor, my husband hollered from the one above saying there was no use. I began thinking about all of the things that would prevent us from fixing a damn light bulb, knowing it doesn't take an electrician to replace a light bulb. Lefty-loosey, righty-tighty, right? Not in the mood for nonsense, but lacking the ability to control myself, I bickered back asking if he needed a woman to do the job. Needless to say, he wasn't amused, and by the time I made it to the bathroom, he held the 24 inch fluorescent tube he unscrewed from behind the fixture.
I was in awe that teacher housing, about 350 miles from the nearest Lowes, installed fixtures that required fluorescent tube bulbs. Knowing we had tube lighting on the underside of our cabinetry, we thought we'd be able to interchange them. But of course, what's better than installing "one size fits all" fixtures with fluorescent tube bulbs? Installing a different sized fluorescent tube bulb in three different locations. There was no hope in replacing the bulb that night.
We donned our resourceful hats and decided we could handle a temporary fix until talking to the maintenance guys in the morning. We survived the evening by "installing" two twelve-foot strands of white Christmas lights, held at the seams where the walls met the ceiling. The only thing more redneck than the Christmas lights in the bathroom was the duct tape that held them there.
Sadly enough, the strands still hang on our walls as the school doesn't provide the awkward bulbs, and we'll be sharing the Christmas spirit until Amazon decides to send our shipment.
Maybe that's why I'm having a hard time feeling like spring's on its way?
My sophomores are reading "All Quiet on the Western Front," and I had forgotten what great imagery and descriptive language the book has. There are some parts I actually remember from reading it 20 years ago as a high school student myself.
ReplyDeleteThen, as coincidences will happen, the last living WWI American veteran died today. He was 110 and lived in West Virginia. Antiques Roadshow featured a Prussian helmut in which a soldier had tucked little, yellowed newspaper clippings, "death notices" under the folds of the lining. He carried the notices of friends with him to the Front.
100 years later or so it ends up on Antiques Roadshow from Des Moines, Iowa. There's something about that. Some commentary on history and human nature and the connections that bind people together over time and space, in mysterious ways they never imagined possible.
Michelle, when I taught that book last year, I remembered, vividly, one scene involving injured horses. That was almost 25 years ago that I'd read it in high school myself!
ReplyDeleteJust goes to show what good imagery will do.
This week has slipped through my fingers like a greasy kitchen utensil! I have not managed to transfer my thoughts from the oven to the cooling rack. The cauldron is bubbling over, but I forgot where I put the recipe. I’m stuffing my face full of appetizers and not leaving any room for the meat and potatoes. By the time I’m done scrubbing the sink, there’s another hungry mouth to feed. There’s a big splatter of sauce on the ceiling, but I’m a wet noodle.
ReplyDeleteIn addition to the texts about writing that I am delving into for this course, tonight the following classics are strewn about me on the bed: Writing Essentials: Raising Expectations and Results While Simplifying Teaching by Reggie Routman (2005), Teaching the Qualities of Writing: Ideas, Design, Languages, Presentation by JoAnn Portalupi and Ralph Fletcher (2004), 6+1 Traits of Writing: Everything You Need to Teach and Assess Student Writing (2003), and Best Practices in Writing Instruction, edited by Steve Graham, Charles MacArthur, and Jill Fitzgerald (2007).
ReplyDeleteAin’t nothin’ to it but to do it……….. right?
You know what they say, better late than never, or something like that... I love Eleanor's description of her busy week slipping through her fingers and the inability to transfer her thoughs from the oven to the cooling rack, and all the kitchen metaphors! I couldn't relate more! Is it strange that when teaching every week seems like the one she described? I start out every Sunday night/Monday morning with the best of intentions and the greatest plans and ideas, but by Tuesday afternoon/Wednesday morning I am running around like a mad-woman trying to keep up with everything! And just like Eleanor, I have texts about writing (for this course) as well as a spew of others about poetry, CD's of baby lullabies borrowed from a friend that I've been meaning to burn, my own developing "writer's notebook," and much, much more...
ReplyDelete