Carl Dreads Going to Work-Do I care?

I guess it really is the proverbial love-hate relationship.  I enjoy, maybe love is too strong of a word, seeing pictures and getting small morsels of a person's life.  Here is a brief list of the fun:  Paula is waiting for carnitas; Leah is counting the days until a trip to Wisconsin Dells; and Maddie scored 100% on the Taylor Swift contest.  I might not know this information about my family were it not for facebook, so finding about tidbits about someone's whereabouts, travels, interests keeps me logging in and finding out the latest "wall postings."

However, do I need/want/desire or should I know that Carl dreads going to work today; Blair is not sleeping well; the Swanson's eat too much cereal?  (Names have been changed to protect the innocent.)  C'mon, where else in living history was one able to access the not-so-vital inner-workings of another's life?  Or when was it necessary to share with the world what is a common, everyday truth: all would rather the weekend one day longer; sleep is elusive (I write this at 2:15 am); and if it is in the pantry, refrigerator, or on the counter, a child will eat it.  These are well-documented, hard and fast facts.  What is compelling us to tell one another about the mundane?  What is compelling me to keep reading it?

I walk my poochie three times a day: up the sidewalk, down the sidewalk, and around the block.  On these daily, habitual walks, I see two neighbors on a regular basis, but I do not speak more than a hello to them.  Everyday, three times a day, I am walking, circling, pounding pavement and no one is outside!  Not only that, but there is rarely a chit chat.  Of course, it is far too hasty a claim to say people are all logged into facebook checking someone's status or filling in their "What's on your mind?" box.  No, that is not my claim.  But maybe all these mundane comments would have more of a filter if front porches that were made for sitting is where people sat.

For now, I will keep on with this new electronic craze.  Don't be fooled; I have found the down arrow that allows me to "hide" those with the banal, hackneyed, tiresome comments.  

A Jar of Pickles

Here is how I remember it:
We are sitting at the dining room table: mother is at the head with Ross directly across from her. Grandpa Willard is to the right of my brother with Grandma Clara next to him. I sit to the left of Ross with Liz to the right of mother. It is my 10th birthday. The conversation has been lively, the food hot and good, and the anticipation for my presents growing with each passing minute. Grandpa and Grandma are extra excited about giving me my gift. They exchange glances and giggles. I am thrilled to see what is inside the extra big and extra heavy package.

Finally, happy birthday is sung, candles are extinguished, and dishes are cleared. My gifts are laid before me. I know which gift I will open first. With great zeal, I tear into the package. All eyes watch me as I rip into the paper, then the box, and behold my gift. The laughter ripples around the table. Grandpa and Grandma are delighted by their surprise. And immediately, as I raise the gift from the box, I burst into tears.

Yesterday, I visit my 97-year-old grandma at the care center. She is dressed in her navy skirt, pink sweater, blue pearls, and pink-as-a-petal lipstick. She is darling. She greets me from her wheelchair-all smiles, yet searching for who I am. After introductions, she grasps again that I am her granddaughter. We look through new photos; I share stories of my kids; and I ask questions. Mother is also with us. She has with her the two poems Grandma memorized in 8th grade. If my math is correct, the year was 1925 when she committed the two-page poems to memory. I create a lesson plan in my head for next year's 9th graders; they will have a gift to give their grandchildren. I have with me some recipes and she looks over the rice pudding recipe written in her gentle scrawl. I see a few memories percolating in her mind. Memories too percolate in my mind and I ask her if she remembers her bread and butter pickles. "How did you cut those cucumbers so thin?" I ask. She doesn't know. "Did you have to soak them in vinegar?" I ask hoping to jog something in her memory. She doesn't recall. Soon this part of our conversation is over; she is hoping she has some roast beef made for me to take home to my husband. She knows that Grandpa, who sadly has not been with us for 19 years, would love some roast beef and mashed potatoes. It is a bitter sweet moment.

Last week, I bought "State Fair" quality bread and butter pickles at the grocery store. I was more than disappointed. They are cut too thick for my liking, they are not sweet enough, they do not resemble Grandma's homemade kind.

The birthday gift I received for my 10th birthday-the biggest monster jar of Grandma's bread and butter pickles you have ever seen. Oh how I wish I could erase my tearful response. Oh how I wish I could taste Grandma's pickles again and could hear Grandpa's laughter. Oh how I wish that when we were young we could appreciate the love, beauty, and generosity of what we are given. Grandma doesn't remember how to make her pickles and I never learned. And anything store bought is never the same.

Lulu.com-your poetry has been published

Hey Graduates,

You've been published!

Here is a link to help you find the poetry collection put together from my four periods of 12th grade English.

http://www.lulu.com/commerce/index.php?fBuyContent=7051553&fBuyProductType=print&cid=en_email_pt_pubcomplete_add-to-cart

A special thanks to Ms. G. and Anna Marie (Tino) for coordinating this publication.

I hope it is something you will keep and will share with others.

The Sun is Dancing

Twenty-two vacant desks line the classroom while the sun sneaks under the straggly green window shades and makes its way to dance on the bare desktops.  A few discarded pencils cradled in the pencil holders remain, but all paper, books, backpacks have vanished.   The cerulean blue bulletin board remains lined with images of Hamlet's questioning of humanity; life; and our eternal existence: from dust to dust.  It sets a nostalgic mood. I too am set to question and wonder about "how noble in reason and infinite in faculty" we are formed and made and yet, how like dust, time simply vanishes, is no more. In the background the halls are echoing silence.  No laughter; no Broland; no Job calls; no rap; nothing but silence.

I can feel my heart beating in my chest as I search for the words to say; I want to reflect on the wonder of this year, but my heart is anxious to put my thoughts into words.  Should I try to say goodbye?  Should I try to make an insightful comment about moving on, about following dreams; about finding one's self.  No, I say to my heart,  just sit in this silent moment and think about the beauty, wonder, laughter, thoughts, and challenges that occurred in room 304b.  

I see the faces of my students as I look across those empty desks.  Conversations resonate in my head and a smile sweeps across my face as I recall the students who have graced me with their unique talents, their thoughtfulness, their zany ways; and their myriad of insights.  This isn't like dust at all--these memories dancing in my head while the sun dances on the desks won't just disappear.  The memories will fade and change just as the sun fades and changes as the time of the year changes but they won't disappear.  

For now, I will celebrate the beauty of spring, the peace of the hallways, and the joy of sending seniors onto their next step in their journey.  In the fall, I will look for the rays of the sun on the desks before a new year begins, and I will remind myself of why I teach.  I will remind myself this classroom is about understanding that we has humans, as those who are "noble in reason and infinite in faculty," must continue to consider, in the words of Shakespeare: "what is a man" and find a definition for who we are and who we are to become.

A Sunflower; A Bird; Fireworks

A sunflower:

There is a move in yoga called a sunflower; I love it.  You stand with your feet shoulder width apart and with your hands raised above your head.  In a grand sweeping motion, bring your hands swooping down to the ground in front of you while bending your knees and gather the air in front of you while criss-crossing your hands.  Return your hands to the sky while straightening your knees: repeat.  Smile.

A bird:

Driving up Pelham Road, I have felt giddy the last two weeks.  Lining the hill are maple trees with lemon-lime fluffy pompoms of leafy substance.  They seem to sing with joy.  In an attempt to share the joy with the budding trees, we rolled down the windows, pointed our hands toward the sky, and began to flap our human wings up and down as we cruised through the forested avenue.  

Our laughter grew as we passed a dark-haired, scruffy, construction-type working man in his dilapidated truck going down the hill.  Both times that we grew wings and flew in our avion, our new friend passed us and immediately joined us in our imaginary flight.  The looks that passed from driver to driver were ones of amazement, joy, and friendship.

Fireworks:

I filled my white mug with coffee, grabbed the cream from the fridge, and poured the usual amount into the steamy brew.  The cream made its way to the bottom of the mug and on its return to the brim it scattered and danced in C, S, and curly-cue type patterns.  I giggled as I imagined my mug bursting with the glory of fireworks.

Thoughts:

Some inertly tantalizing sensation occurs when what was once just an ordinary movement becomes a beautiful flower, a carefree bird, or dazzling fireworks.  Be on the look out for ways nature sneaks into the mundane; take a risk to trust the pattern of something other than an ordinary human, let yourself imagine more beauty than what you see at first glance.

Each spring the earth is transformed; me too!

hula-hoops and a garage

A  sandy-haired 10 year-old stood on the steps of her townhome swaying her hips in an attempt to keep the pink and purple hula-hoop twirling and looping around her waist.  There was not a trace of defeat as she hunched her back and draped her arms to once again retrieve the hoop from the cement to place it around her waist.

Not too many yards away from her was a shaggy-haired, 5-o'clock shadow wearing man working beside his one-car garage.  He moved his handsaw back and forth diagonally along the birch bark branch.  After a closer look, it became apparent that the previous bird-perch, shadow provider, leaf grower would soon find its new occupation as the support to a hand-crafted tv remote perch, a coffee-mug rest, a magazine holder.

It was two years ago that a 11-year old girl laden with her purple backpack and swinging her lunch bag entered her townhome garage at 4:00 after a spring day of learning at her elementary school.  I am sure the day was filled with many of the usual activities: silent reading; microscope viewing; hopscotch jumping; and problem solving.  But her life changed instantly upon finding her mother dead, hanging from the garage beam. She arrived before her 9-year-old sister; she arrived to bear the news alone.

As I passed the townhomes on my run the other day, I was reminded of the beauty, simplicity, tragedy, and complexity of life.  Hula-hoops, hand-made crafts, suicide, and suffering all mix together and create what we call life.  I am moved to be thankful for the simple joys of this life and I am moved to pray fervently for the suffering of those who hunch their backs, drape their arms, and pick themselves up and move on in life while laden with the secrets and grief of tragedy and hardship.  

Songs and Spring--Iambic Pentameter

A song that speaks right through the soul can be

A song that can change someone's heart to see.

Sungeun K.

How her melody sings into my heart

Each note a memory of days gone by.

Anna C.

She walks along the street that winds and bends

For right now she is where she wants to be.

Yvonne M.