As the Crow Flies

A crow, power line clenched in his talons,
memorizes my face
as I walk below.
His black eye
takes in the set of my jaw
the downward turn of my mouth
my stiffened shoulders
my red, red eyes.
"I will remember you,"
he caws,
his voice hoarse with promise.
"I will single you out.
I will know you next time."
The crow
who can count to six
who turns on his brethren
for no good reason
who picks his breakfast from
cracks in the blacktop
and waits until cars are dangerously close
before flapping his wings
in a lazy hop...
He blinks
recording my sad, ordinary self
imprinting my sorrow on his mind's eye.
Then he spreads his extraordinary wings
and leaves the power line trembling.
He swoops overhead
without so much as a good-bye.
We will meet again
I know.
He will remember the sad core of me
and bob his head in recognition.

Battleground

Words welled up in my eyes,
clotted my throat,
stood on the front lines of my heart
ready to fight, defend...
"Retreat words," I ordered.

I was not ready to send them forth,
armed as they were.
Instead, they bunched behind my knuckles.
My fists clenched with thoughts.
They lay in wait...
phrases,
whole sentences
crouched silently,
held at bay by my command...
a war within.

Other words,
well trained,
shuffled their combat boots.
They marched in rows,
across my mind,
over my lips.

"Retreat words," I whispered,
my voice quieter than crickets,
lost in the steady drumbeat of battle.
My rebel words
breached enemy lines,
fighting for my cause,
disobeying orders.
My words,
a rag-tag militia,
led a revolution.
Rogue words with soldiers' hearts,
armored in truth,
too brave to surrender.

One Meeting Too Many

The coffee pot,
Humbly splattered,
On the wheeled cart in the library
Bears witness to the harried start of the day.
The plastic prong,
On one side of the lid,
Has come unhinged.
We empathize;
But no one takes time to fix it.
We are quick to take seats
at the back tables
Wrapping cold hands
around warm mugs
In air conditioning that works too well today
And not at all tomorrow,
Scrabbling for a loose pen
in the bottom of a book bag,
Pretending to take notes
While making to do lists:
-Turn in lunch forms
- Order electric sharpener
- Put in work order for locker #17...
Sometimes
The only sweet thing
About a mandated morning meeting
Robbing precious minutes
Reviewing old news
We know by heart
Is the jelly donut
Sawed in half
With a plastic knife
That wasn't really cut out for the job
Or even up to the challenge
But showed up anyway
A flimsy plastic miracle.
Proving once again,
The littlest things can make a difference.

Seeing Stones (Part Two)

Last week, I shared a photo of some seeing stones I collected from the banks of Elkhorn Creek.
I was fascinated with the perfect, tidy holes bored through solid rocks. What made the holes?
After quite a bit of research, I discovered the holes were made by piddocks. A piddock is a type of mussel who lives inside angelwing shells. The tiny clam rotates the sharp edges of his shell in order to carve out a tunnel for himself. Safe inside his chiseled burrow, he reaches out to gather all the nutrients he needs. When he abandons his stone house, he leaves it behind for rock hounds or curious teachers!
Although I have not yet caught a glimpse of a magical world or supernatural creature while looking through my seeing stones, I have learned about a world and a creature I never knew existed. That is its own kind of magic!

Seeing Stones (Part One)

A couple weeks ago, my husband, sons, and I rented two kayaks and a canoe and ventured down Elkhorn Creek. I wasn't brave enough to tackle any white water rapids, so we opted for the three-hour "Fun Float." After a 15-minute orientation video, our guide herded us onto an old school bus and drove us a few miles to the access point where we chose our boats, oars, and life jackets and set off downstream.
We took turns paddling the kayaks and canoe; and, although we didn't encounter white water, we did navigate some challenging "riffles" that tipped my younger son right out of his kayak and caused my husband and I to ram the bow of the canoe into a rocky outcropping.
Despite those mishaps, we were having fun on our "Fun Float."
Halfway through the trip, we docked our boats on a pebbly beach, unloaded our small cooler, and sat down to drink some water and eat a few snacks.
An unusual rock caught my eye. It was a chunk of limestone with a neat hole bored right through it. I picked up the rock and showed it off to my husband and sons.
"It's a seeing stone!" I exclaimed. I knocked a clod of dirt off the edge of the rock and held the hole in front of my eye."These are supposed to help you see into magical realms!"
I looked the exact opposite of magical...soaked shorts, frizzled hair, mismatched bathing suit, bulky life vest (still fastened even though I was on shore), and a sunburned nose.
Joey and the boys were too kind to take a picture of me; but I'm sure I looked half crazy wandering around the beach, staring through my new limestone monocle.
"I guess this is caused by moving water," I speculated, still scavenging around on the beach. By now, I was mainly talking to myself since my husband and sons were repacking the cooler and clambering back onto the boats.
"I hope it's okay if I take it as a souvenir," I said to no one in particular. "I mean...my seventh graders will love this. It's like in the Arthur trilogy or Spiderwick Chronicles! I can put it on the bookshelf; and the kids can look through it like I am right now and...ohmygosh!"
I interrupted my own enthusiastic rambling when, through the seeing stone, I saw two more rocks with perfect holes.
"This is awesome!" I shrieked, scooping up my two new seeing stones. Now I was really beginning to wonder if I had stumbled into a magical realm. I glanced nervously over my shoulder to make sure my family was still there. They were there alright, waiting impatiently for me to get into the canoe so we could finish our trip.
"Can you believe this?!" I asked, awkwardly climbing into the canoe, my three rocks clutched to my life jacket.
"They are cool looking," one of my sons conceded.
"Yes!" I said. "They are really cool looking; but why are there so many? I don't think these could all be caused by running water..."
I tucked the rocks into the bottom of the cooler, grabbed an oar, and helped paddle down to the take-out point. For the rest of our journey, I wondered about my seeing stones.
Back home, I booted up the laptop and set to work, determined to learn something about my new collection. Hours of research later, I realized the science behind the strange rocks was more magical than I could have imagined...
(Stop by Galley Street next Tuesday to find out what made the holes in the seeing stones!)

Two of my three seeing stones. I lost the third; but I found it a few days after taking the picture.

Upcoming Coronation

I'm getting a crown in a few weeks.
Unfortunately I'm not getting a crown because I'm queen for a day; and I didn't win a beauty contest.
I'm getting a crown on my tooth. Ouch.
One of my molars has a fracture. When my femur was fractured in fourth grade, I didn't get a crown; I got a cast. The crown on my tooth is like a cast that stays on forever.
My dentist said she just went to a conference where they discussed the fact that more and more people are living to be 100 years old; so we need to be even more diligent in caring for our aging teeth. I'm only 46; and already one of my teeth is going into a permanent cast.
The dentist explained to me, while I was still lying on the examining chair with my head tilted too far back, that if I don't get the crown, I may have to get a root canal. That sounds like a punishment.
"If you don't eat your vegetables, you can't have dessert."
"If you continue to sass your mother, you will be sent to your room."
"If you're not home by curfew, you will be grounded."
"If you don't get this crown, you will get a root canal!"
I decided to get the crown. I'm a rule follower; and with my dental anxiety, I don't think I can endure the root canal. It's bad enough that my mouth, which I assume has always been a democracy, will now be under the rule of a monarch. The unruly molar with the crown will definitely demand the lion's share of attention. The other teeth are going to have to adjust to the change.
I don't want to mess with the geography in there by digging a canal which might eventually lead to a bridge. No thanks...unless the newly crowned royal tooth decrees there must be a canal. In that case, I guess I won't have much of a choice. My mouth is not my own. Hopefully I'll live to 100 so my royal tooth can enjoy a long and successful reign.

Beach Bummed

My family knows I prefer indoor activities unless I am on vacation. For ten days a year, I live like a person on a Nike commercial. If not on the beach, I'd rather be on my couch. In fact, I sometimes blame my inactive lifestyle on the fact that we do not live ocean side. If we lived near the ocean, I would be a dog-walking, running, biking, paddle-boarding, bird-watching, zip-lining fool. I would slather myself with sunscreen and insist on eating a healthy, grilled, seafood dinner on the patio every single evening. 

Unfortunately for my waistline, we live 10 hours from the ocean. We do not have an enclosed patio, so we are forced to carry all the patio furniture cushions in and out whenever we decide to sit outside. We have so many cushions, that I am completely exhausted by the time I have the cushions in place. From the moment I sit down outside, I begin to dread putting all the cushions back in the garage. 

If we lived at the beach, we could leave the cushions in place. The intense sun would dry the damp cushions in record time, fashionably leaching them of their color, leaving them tastefully faded. Worn out things look classy at the beach. Worn out things look worn out in my backyard.

On muggy days, like today, I seriously consider sitting on the cushions inside the garage. It's cool in there. It's so humid outside that my hair stays in a frizzled cloud around my face. No matter how long I spend blow-drying and straightening it, it takes about five minutes for it to recoil from the hot, wet air. My hair recoils first; then I recoil and retreat back into my air-conditioned lair. If we were at the ocean, my hair would be sun-streaked and windblown.

At the beach, grit on the hardwood floors is expected...sand carried in on flip flops and bare feet. I'm not sure why I have grit on my hardwood floors here in central Kentucky; so I choose to ignore it and pretend I'm at the beach.

The freshest seafood we can get here comes from Kroger's seafood department. If it smells fishy, I steer my cart right on to the red meat section. The ocean is good for my cholesterol.

At the beach, I feel relaxed. At home, I feel harried. At the beach, I don't set cell phone alerts or check my calendar. At home, I misplace the dog groomer's reminder card and end up missing the dog's grooming appointment. At the beach, fresh strawberries seem like dessert. At home, fresh strawberries seem like dessert only if they are on top of chewy chocolate brownies and a scoop of French vanilla ice cream.

I need to move to the beach.

I Love a Parade

Our neighborhood parade was canceled yesterday because of rain. One little boy puttered down the street in his battery-operated jeep anyway. His dad walked behind, shoulders hunched against the drizzle. Someone had fastened white vinyl stars to the little red jeep. The pint-sized driver waved shyly as he soldiered on, grand master of the parade that wasn't.

* * *

The neighborhood parade is one of my favorite holiday traditions. Kids march by, carrying hand-lettered signs, "Happy 4th!," "Stars and Stripes Forever!" Red and blue paper streamers trail off bikes and big wheels. A couple kids skateboard around the edge of the crowd. They wear faded patriotic t-shirts, and their skateboard wheels whiz on the concrete. Dogs, with star-spangled bandannas tied 'round their collars, lope at the end of red leashes.
We drag our camping chairs out to the sidewalk along the parade route and clap and cheer as the kids wave and skate and pedal by. The route ends at the tennis court, where the neighborhood association president hands out freeze pops.

* * *

This year, I cheered for the lone little patriotic driver. I wondered if his dad did not get the cancellation email or if the little boy insisted on  driving the route anyway. Regardless, I am inspired. A red jeep, white stars, and a proud little rain-wet, smiling face...the brightest spot on a dark day, too stormy even for fireworks.

Fresh Fudge

My sister was running late.
She called my son's cell phone to say she was stuck on the two-lane part of the trip, driving behind a mowing crew.
"She says we have plenty of time to get a burger or something," my son, Jack, says after hanging up and slipping his phone in his pocket.
We have been making this trip for years, meeting my sister or parents at the state park rest area halfway between our house in the city and their house in the woods. It's a little over an hour drive each way.
Since the boys were very small, we have met at this same spot. When they were little, it was a longer hand-off, transferring car seats, then booster seats from our car to theirs. This year, Jack complained that he could have driven the entire way himself, now that he has his license. He could have saved Aunt Sissy the trip, he says, if only we would break down and buy a new car.
"I know. I know," I say; but secretly, I am happy for the hour's drive with Jack. Next time, he probably will drive the whole way himself. He is spending the week with my parents. His younger brother will have a turn later in the summer. My mother will fix their favorite foods, my sister will play cards with them, and my dad will make jokes and ride around with them in his four-wheel drive mule. Each boy will have another summer week to remember.
We drive down the curvy road that leads away from the rest area and the interstate and back toward the park area.
"Look," Jack says, pointing to a wood-framed souvenir shop on the side of the road, "fresh fudge. When I'm a grown-up, I'm going to eat fudge everyday."
I was still feeling a little fuzzy from the pancakes and syrup we had for breakfast.
"We do NOT need fudge," I say. "Besides...it's not really fresh in these little shops. I'm sure they ship it in from somewhere." I actually have no idea; but it seems unlikely that someone is in there making fudge.
We stop anyway.
Jack nearly laughs out loud when we walk in and see an elderly woman making fresh fudge; but before he can say, 'told you so,' the two of us are captivated by the store's inventory. The entire store is decorated with dozens of tiny Christmas villages. It's as if Jack, and I, and the little woman making fudge are giants in this tiny world of mitten-clad miniature figurines. Most of the people who populate the village scenes are only as tall as my pinky finger. Some are poised to throw snowballs, others are walking on icy streets made of glass, some diminutive children decorate a Christmas tree, a pink-cheeked couple sits on an elfin bench beneath the glow of a miniature working street light.
Each separate village boasts dozens of figurines and porcelain cars and intricately detailed houses and churches and shops. We tiptoe, trying to quiet the shuffling of our giant feet, past Dickens Village, A Christmas Story Village, Christmas in the City, Alpine Village, Holiday in the Woods, New England Village, Winter's Frost, Original Snow Village, the North Pole...
Each village's name is typed on a yellowed piece of card stock, propped in the frayed cotton snow in front of each scene.
It's mesmerizing and magical...the squeak of our shoes against the thickly-waxed wood floors, the hum of the air conditioning, the buttery smell of fudge, and these tiny scenes set up with such meticulous care.
After circling the entire shop, I feel as if I am losing track of time. My sister will be waiting, I think; but I can't help revisiting some of my favorite villages for one last peek. We exchange a few friendly words with the shopkeeper who talks to us while swirling a spatula over the thick rectangle of fudge she has poured on a block of marble.
She asks where we are from; and we tell her, but strangely we don't ask her the same question.
She says the store is open year-round, except for January and February. Her eyes twinkle from behind round, wire-rimmed glasses.
We leave the store, and trudge silently back into the heat of summer.
"I feel like we just passed up some excellent fudge," Jack says, once we are both in the car. I start to give in and go back to buy the fudge; but some part of me is afraid if I open that heavy wooden door again, we will find a typical souvenir shop...t-shirts and mugs and key chains; but no fudge, no Christmas village, no jolly Mrs. Claus.
I decide to drive away, preserving that magical place, choosing to remember my son and me, careful giants allowed a glimpse into the magical worlds of someone else's dreams.

Souvenirs

We returned home from our beach vacation yesterday. Today, our house, cleaned so carefully for the dog sitter a week ago, is cluttered with half-emptied luggage, assorted piles of laundry, souvenir t-shirts, and a crumpled rainbow of beach towels.

I shake out shorts and bathing suit cover-ups, leaving a fine layer of sand in front of the washing machine. The dog sniffs the dirty clothes bag. She does not recognize the smell of the sea.

Sand followed us home, clinging to the mesh in the pockets of my husband's swim trunks, wedged in the soles of my flip flops, caked inside broken fragments of pearly shells tossed into the beach bag, swirled in a thin, muddy paste in the bottom of the cooler.

I don't mind the sand; but I wish, along with it, I could have carried home the calming shush of waves, scalloping against the shore. I wish I could unpack the warmth of the Florida sun and drape it, like a shawl, around my shoulders. I wish we were closer than a long-day's drive...close enough to make temporary footprints on our morning walks and catch glimpses of dolphins, dancing just past the sandbar.  

I miss the beach.

Wherever Little Boys Go

The dog interrupts my writing.
She needs to go outside.
We stand at the top of the hill,
behind our house,
overlooking Cave Creek.

A little boy runs along the opposite bank,
a net in his hand,
his eyes downcast,
following the minnows
that dart, and weave, and tease.

I remember my son, now 15,
years ago on his birthday,
a net in one hand, a bucket in the other.
New rubber boots calf deep in clear water,
creating a detour for Cave Creek's minnows.

A crow brags from the tree behind me,
interrupting my remembering.
Some shiny treasure in his beak glitters in the sun.
The dog barks, and I turn back.
The boy is gone, already around the bend...

or lost; wherever little boys go
when they outgrow their fishing nets
and rubber boots.
When splashing through the silver ripples
is no longer their favorite way to spend a summer day.

Lunch at Don's

Don's Restaurant was always dark and cool and noisy. Sometimes, in the summer, my mom and sister and I would meet Grandpa at Don's for lunch. Grandpa had been retired from the coal mines for a while; so he spent his days visiting with his friends on Main Street.
Back then, Main Street had a movie theater that showed Jaws and Star Wars and Kramer vs. Kramer. It also had a Baptist church, a bank, a clothing store called Watson's, two dime stores (T,G, & Y and Newberry's), a soda fountain called Rexall's, a jewelry store called Stiles's, and, of course, the Courthouse. Grandpa and his friends gathered to talk and chew gum in front of the Courthouse. Some of them smoked cigarettes or chewed tobacco, but not Grandpa. Grandpa chewed cinnamon Dentyne and would only give me "half a cake" if I asked for a piece.
Because he never learned to drive, he took a taxi downtown every morning. When I asked my mom what Grandpa did all day downtown, she said he "loafed around." Sometimes, he took care of business at the bank. Sometimes he sat at the counter in Don's Restaurant and talked with whomever sat at the stool beside him. I wondered what they talked about.
On days we met Grandpa at Don's, he was already there, holding a table for us. It was usually a corner booth, the vinyl seat cold against the backs of my legs. Don's was so noisy, with clattering silverware and clinking ceramic plates. We could barely hear each other talk. Grandpa didn't talk much anyway.
He ordered Cokes all around, while I took my time looking over the menu. Chicken fried steak, macaroni and cheese, breakfast served all day, tuna salad... I thoroughly read the neatly typed descriptions of each entree; but I always ordered a grilled cheese sandwich with a side of steak fries. The plates were white with a green ribbon of paint circling the rim. I squirted a pool of vinegary ketchup between my fries and sandwich, scooting the pickles out of the way to save them for last. I savored the perfectly grilled sandwich, thick with melted cheese; and I ate every last one of my fat, flat fries. Grandpa cleaned his plate, too; and my sister used a waxy red crayon to trace letters on the paper kids' menu. We never said much. Mom ate her tuna salad with a fork in one hand and a Saltine cracker in the other. Her packages from Newberry's leaned against her hip on one side. Her wicker purse stood open on the seat beside her; but she didn't need to pay. Grandpa always took care of the check.
I wish we'd taken a picture there, something to look at and remember. Three generations gathered around a wobbly Formica table in a dimly-lit diner, Grandpa wiped the corners of his mouth with his paper napkin, mom asked about his day, my sister sat on her knees, and I made a face when I bit into a sour pickle.
My Grandpa died when I was in my early 20s. By that time, Don's Restaurant had been closed for years. Most of downtown died store by store before Grandpa passed away; but he still took a cab downtown everyday as long as he was able.
I wish I had a picture to remember us at Don's Restaurant just exactly like it was, just exactly as we were...a moment in time that seemed so ordinary then and so memorable today.

What If

My head felt empty. For several hours yesterday, I had forced every question right out of it. I, who love knowing things, mentally took each "what if" captive and wrestled it somewhere below my brain stem. I could not afford to stop and think. I had to act and act fast.
We thought it was food poisoning...when my 17-year-old began to feel ill Sunday night. He and his dad and grandmother had been to a soccer tournament in Indianapolis. Prior to his game, they ate a mother's day brunch at a local restaurant. Jack had sausage gravy and biscuits.
When he got home, he said, "I don't feel so good."
"It must be the brunch," he said. "My stomach hurts. I took some Rolaids; but it didn't help."
By 9:00 PM, he was sitting on the floor, hunched over the toilet in his downstairs bathroom.
"Where does your stomach hurt?" I asked. He said it hurt right in the middle, around his navel.
He couldn't stop throwing up. I sat up with him all night. He would doze for an hour and then be up again, nauseated, vomiting. I kept checking his temp...not high at all; but he felt clammy.
The next morning, I went to work for half a day. The vomiting had slowed down; and he was sleeping. My mother-in-law said she would stay with him.
It was our first day of state assessment. I decided to administer the test and then leave my students with a sub for the afternoon. I could barely concentrate, handing out test booklets, reading the instructions, sharpening pencils, monitoring students. When my sub arrived, I hit the door running. Something nagged at the back of my mind. "What if..." I shut it down. The appointment with our family physician was at 1:00. I made my way across town. My son, still nauseated, sat in the passenger seat, a plastic garbage can between his knees.
The doctor also suspected food poisoning. He ordered a shot to help with the nausea. He pressed Jack's stomach. He didn't like Jack's reaction.
"I think we should do a CT scan," he said.
Insurance didn't agree.
I said, "Do it anyway." The what ifs were scratching at my brain, clawing their way in.
Jack drank the contrast; and we waited. The radiology tech performed the scan.
"Do you live near the hospital?" she asked.
The what ifs were screaming in my ears.
I did not need the tech to explain. I knew she could tell me very little until the doctor read the scan. I made eye contact with her. She held out a piece of paper and asked me to write my cell phone number down...again.
Jack and I got into the car.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"To the hospital," I said.
"But the doctor hasn't called yet," he said.
"Just to be safe," I said. The what ifs were so loud, my voice sounded muffled in my own ears.
The doctor called as I was pulling into the hospital parking lot.
"It's a hot appendix," he said. "They're waiting for him in surgery."
The what ifs drowned out the directions the registrar gave me.
"Can you just walk us there?" I asked. I must have looked desperate. I could see her mouth moving, telling me how to get around the hospital; but I could not understand.
She walked us to surgery.
Hours and prayers later, we are home again...just released from the hospital. The emergency appendectomy was a success. The surgeon removed Jack's appendix before it ruptured. Jack feels so much better. He says he feels like he could take off running...
"Not for three weeks," the doctor says.
I thank God for the power of prayer and the power to stifle those crippling what ifs. I thank God my son is okay.

Snow Cones

Everyone gets one snow cone.
They choose the flavor.
We pay.
"Don't we get to play?"
Michael asks.
He has a football
tucked under his arm.
"Just snow cones today,"
I say.
He grumbles
under his breath.
He forgets
that I have teacher ears.
"Be grateful,"
I remind him.
My eyebrows
make an exclamation point.
My face is
an emoji with gritted teeth.
I'm tired.
It's been a long week.
110 seventh graders
make a loud, crooked line.
The snow cone truck
is parked behind the football field.
Two college students
scoop the ice.
"No seconds," I say.
Funds are limited.
The girls order mango.
The boys, blueberry.
One girl orders lemon.
"I thought it would be yellow,"
she complains.
It's clear instead.
And sour.
Someone nudges Luke's elbow.
His cherry snow cone stains the grass.
My face
is an emoji
with a sideways frown.
Luke twists his mouth,
worried.
His elbows bow out,
surprised.
He holds his empty spoon
in one hand.
His empty cone
in the other.
He glances at me
over the top of his thick glasses.
A heavy sigh
freezes in the roof of my mouth.
"Get back in line,"
I say.
I motion to him.
I nod encouragingly.
My face
is a smiling emoji
with red cheeks.
I remember.
Today is supposed to be fun.
"Add one more to the purchase order," I say.
Funds aren't that limited.

Doctor's Orders

I sit very still on the examination table. The sound of the crinkly paper under my thighs is distracting. I want to listen, very carefully, to the doctor's advice.
"Anxiety is the body's natural response to danger," he says. "Many years ago, if a person was being chased by a bear, for instance, the person would experience anxiety. It's called the fight or flight instinct. The person's blood pressure would rise; and the person would be ready to run from the bear. Now, not too many people find themselves up against a bear; but the human body is still hard-wired for fight or flight. You seem to be experiencing fight or flight in situations that don't require fight or flight. Something stressful happens. Your blood pressure rises; and then something else stressful happens, and it goes up again."
"What should I do?" I ask. "I do feel stressed."
"Do you like to do anything that relaxes you?" he asks.
I think about it. I really don't like massages or running or napping or manicures.
"I like to soak in the tub and read books," I say. I would shrug; but I remember the crinkly paper. I raise my eyebrows like question marks instead.
"Do that," he tells me. "Soak for hours if that's what it takes. Read lots of books."
Doctor's orders.
And so, when I feel like fighting or fleeing, I turn on the faucet in my little tub. I don't have a fancy soaking tub. I pour bubble bath that smells like pomegranate or lemon or lavender vanilla. I pour the bubble bath directly under the hot water that streams from the faucet. I swirl my hand under the surface and lean back in the bubbles. I wear a claw clip to keep my hair dry.
I dry my hands on a towel so I don't get the pages of the book wet.
I soak until my skin is as wrinkled as the skin of a prune.
I soak until a little jagged piece of my toenail polish peels off and floats like a miniature pink island.
I soak until I read to page 100; then I read at least two more chapters.

* * *

"The good news," the doctor says, on the day he gives me a prescription for bubble bath, "is that your ancestors were probably very good at running from bears. The calm people were eaten."

My Mother Dreams of Houses

My mother dreams of houses
She dreams of our old house
the yellow house on Pear Street
the house where my sister and I
were children
the house where my mother
sat with us in the front yard
and taught us how to weave clover crowns
the house where my mother
filled the golden tub with bubbles
the house where my mother
helped us cut paper dolls
and hosted sleepovers
the house where she made blueberry pancakes
on Saturday morning

My  mother dreams of houses.
She dreams of our old house
the brick house on the hill
the house where my sister and I
were teenagers
the house where my mother
made fruit pizza and lasagna
the house where my mother
planned surprise parties
and helped with science projects
the house where my mother
waited up until we came home
the house where she signed report cards
and mailed college applications

My mother dreams she is in her old room
in our old house
She dreams she has broken a hole
through the hard wood floor
My mother dreams she is using a trowel
to dig in the ground under the floor
My mother dreams she is planting two strong trees
"What crazy dreams," my mother says
My mother dreams of houses
My mother dreams of trees
My mother dreams...of my sister and me

A Long Good-bye

My elementary school
was organized
with grades 2nd through 4th
on the main floor;
5th through 8th upstairs.
First grade tucked into the side wing.

Moving upstairs
was tough for me;
and I imagined,
it was tough
for my old teachers, too.
So every day,
during my fifth grade year,
I made the long pilgrimage...
from class to class,
after the bell.

"Good-bye, Mrs. Quillen," I said
to my 4th grade teacher.
She always looked surprised,
her eyes wide behind her glasses.
"Have a nice afternoon, Mrs. Carter,"
I called, lingering at her door,
hoping she might ask me
to help tidy the bookshelves
or organize the maps.

"How was your day?"
I asked Miss Davidson.
She was my dad's
2nd grade teacher, too;
and he told me
about the wooden paddle
named "Dr. Pepper"
that lived in her bottom desk drawer.
By the time I was in 2nd grade,
Miss Davidson was still teaching;
but Dr. Pepper had retired.

Finally, skipping a little,
(so I wouldn't miss her),
I made my way
down the long hall
to the first grade wing.
"Good-bye, Mrs. Shackleford,"
I said.
She drew me in
to a one-armed hug,
her heavy book bag
dangling from the opposite shoulder.

"Good-bye, Sweet Pea!" she said,
seeming to shrink each week
until the last day of fifth grade,
before summer break,
I realized I was eye to eye
with my first grade teacher.

In sixth grade,
I settled for waving
from the other side of the playground
or in passing
as we left lunch...
hanging on by the thinnest thread
to teachers who knew me.
I was learning to move on.

On the Loose

Two lanes
too busy
two hands
on the wheel
windows rolled down
halfway
cold breeze
races in
wreaks havoc

One loose paper
takes a chance
launches from the backseat
flies
in a frenzy
over my shoulder
past my ear
out the window

I see her
in the rearview mirror
rolling
skittering
straight down the yellow line

Nowhere to pull over
I watch
as she grows smaller
a crumpled ball
dodging tires
free to roam the winds
from gutter
to lawn
to rooftop

Perhaps she'll meet
the same fate
as the plastic bag
I saw last week
wingless
trying to fly
but stuck
quivering
in the top of a leafless tree

I wonder
are all chances
worth taking?

Cakewalk

Mom said, "Wear something nice, and go down to Ms. Jerrell's. She won a cake at the cakewalk
last night at the fall festival; and she just called and asked if you could come share it with her."
"She won a cake?" I asked.
I walked three times the night before, handing over a ticket a walk, fifty cents a ticket. Tinny music played in my ears as I stepped carefully around the circle. Every time they called a number, I checked the paper feet I'd landed on...no luck.
Ms. Jerrell was a retired first grade teacher. She was my mom's first grade teacher, over at the same school where she'd won the cake. Mom said she had no idea Ms. Jerrell's age. Her last year in the classroom had been my mom's first. My mom remembered her fondly.
"She was a good teacher," Mom said.
Now, Ms. Jerrell lived alone at the other end of the street. I had walked past her house hundreds of times. If I saw her in the garden or on the little covered porch, I always called out a friendly hello; but I had never been inside.
I knocked on the door and waited. I'm not sure what I expected...bright colors, picture books, a rocking chair.
I heard Ms. Jerrell fumbling with the lock on the door. When she opened it, I realized she was barely a head taller than I was; and I was only 8-years-old.
"Come in. Come in," she said. She stepped aside and waved me over the threshold.
"Congratulations on your cake," I told her politely. "It's so nice of you to share with me."
"Oh. It's too much cake for one" she said.
She shuffled off to the kitchen. I surveyed Ms. Jerrell's parlor. Dolls and cross-stitched pillows covered every chair cushion. I sat down on the black bench in front of the old Baldwin piano.
"May I play a song, Ms. Jerrell?" I called after her.
"Oh yes. Please play a song for us," she said.
I played a song...maybe one I knew by heart; but more than likely, I fumbled through the wilted sheet music perched above the keys. I'm sure I missed a sharp or two. An audience of China dolls watched, wide-eyed, from the chintz-covered armchair. My dusty fingers itched to pick them up; but I dared not disturb them.
While I plunked around on the loose keys, Ms. Jerrell clinked about in the kitchen.
"Bravo!" She exclaimed, appearing suddenly in the arched doorway, shuffling a bit in her scuffs.
"The cake is ready," she said, smiling broadly.
I followed her through an unused dining room to a round table, wedged in a kitchen corner. I could see a tangle of bare rose bushes through the glass panes in the back door.
Ms. Jerrell sliced through layers of chocolate and, with a shaky hand, served me first. We ate our cake from china dessert plates. Ms. Jerrell forgot to fill my milk glass; but I wouldn't have mentioned it for the world. The cake was moist, anyway; so it didn't matter.
"You must be very lucky, Ms. Jerrell," I said. "This cake is delicious. It must have been the best one to win."
We talked about school; and I'm sure I told her about the maps we were making, using dried beans and rice and yarn. I'm sure we talked about Ramona Quimby and cursive writing.
I ate a whole slice; and seconds when she offered.
When it was time to go, I stood awkwardly under the covered porch.
"Thanks again, Ms. Jerrell," I said. "I had a lovely time." I sounded like a girl from a book, I thought. If Ms. Jerrell noticed, she didn't seem to mind.
"Thank you," she said, "for a lovely visit."
I turned to go. I was the lucky one. Ms. Jerrell had taught hundreds of children over the years; and yet I was the child she chose to celebrate her winning cake. I could still taste the rich, fudgy frosting. I was not sure why I felt so sad as I walked home.

The Slice of Life Writing Challenge has not a been a cakewalk; but without it, I may not have sorted through my memories for this slice about a winning cake. I may not have remembered this story about the teacher who taught my mom to read. 

No, this March challenge has not been a cakewalk. Some days, I found myself walking round and round, hoping to be lucky enough to come up with a decent idea. Sometimes, I worried that my slices were too dry or too plain. It has not been a cakewalk; but it has been something worth celebrating. I have loved offering slices to all the readers who have graciously visited Galley Street; and I have loved being invited to share a slice with all the writers whose blogs I've visited.

"Bravo!" I say.

It's so nice of you to share with me.

"Thank you...for a lovely visit."

I was the lucky one.

The Hare

This week is our spring break. I thought it would never arrive. I felt like the hare, from "The Tortoise and the Hare." I was going so fast; but I needed to "lie down by the wayside and rest." I was getting nowhere. We had three snow days in a row this year, in mid-February; but then we MADE UP the three snow days BEFORE our spring break, using those little built-in days off that would have made the long stretch from mid-February to the end of March more bearable. Teachers, kids, administrators...we were all WORN OUT by the time spring break finally arrived.
For weeks, I dreamed of this week. I built it up in my mind. It was going to be the BEST WEEK EVER.
Our family didn't have plans...so no frantic packing or traveling. The boys had no sporting events...so no uniforms to wash. We could just relax and enjoy our time off; we could actually enjoy a much-needed break this spring break.
Easter weekend was busy...with guests and Easter festivities; so I figured that spring break would start yesterday, on Tuesday.
I started the day yesterday by going car shopping with my husband (who is an administrator in our school district; and therefore also on spring break). Our older son, now a licensed driver, is ready to inherit my husband's faithful Honda Pilot. My husband is now on the lookout for a vehicle. I never know what to do in this situation. If I enthusiastically encourage my husband to buy a car, it could turn out to be a lemon. That's exactly what happened the last time I insisted on buying a certain type of car. It turned out to be a lemon. I realized that fact when I was driving to work and ALL the warning lights on the dash came on AT THE SAME TIME. That's how bad it was. Since then, I try to withhold most of my opinions about our family cars. My husband does a good job researching automobiles and finding good deals; but he is the tortoise. For hares like me, car shopping with him can become taxing. I want to run ahead, hopping from dealership to dealership; and when the going gets tough, I want to curl up in the warm car (that we already own) and read a book while he plods along slowly and steadily.
When we returned from a long morning of car shopping (without a car), my husband (who loves to work even on spring break) decided we should cut back the ornamental grasses in the landscaping in front of the house. Usually, he does not include me in these gardening jobs because I am TERRIBLE with any kind of plant. My older son was recuperating from strep throat, though, and my younger son had plans with a friend; so my husband needed an assistant.
I was a few minutes into my assignment when I became thoroughly convinced that the homeowners before us must have used a landscaping service. Otherwise, they would have done away with those ornamental grasses. I don't even know what they're called; but they are more trouble than they are worth. They grow in little mounds that have to be cut back every spring. There are exactly 115 (?!?) little mounds. In order to cut them back properly, I had to use these super-small gardening clippers, barely bigger than my teacher scissors. It was like cutting the hair of 115 chia pets. I unpacked my angry eyes about two chia pets into the job. I couldn't reach all the little mounds unless I crawled around in the mulch. After hours of crawling around, trimming that crazy grass, I was ready to go back to work.
When I FINALLY finished cutting back the mounds of grass, I decided I'd better finish off the day with an even more daunting task...finding our missing towels. I'm notorious for bagging up piles of dirty clothes and stowing them in the storage room temporarily (a very hare-like thing to do). I do this if we are having unexpected company and I don't want the company to see the dirty laundry spilling out of just about every room in the house. Apparently, I bagged up most of our towels a few unexpected visitors ago; and now I can't find the towels. We have been using beach towels.
I dug around in the storage room for a while...no sign of the towels.
Feeling defeated, I washed, dried, and folded all the beach towels.
I felt as if the BEST SPRING BREAK EVER was slipping right through my blistered fingers. If I didn't change things up soon, my spring break days would be as lost as our bath towels.

* * *

Today was a new day; and I was determined to enjoy it. My older son was feeling better; so he and my husband decided to play golf. My younger son decided to spend the day at the basketball court.
This is what I did (quick as a rabbit).

First, I spent $220. 98 at the local bookstore, using a purchase order that the librarian asked me to spend as a favor for her (more like the most wonderful gift for me). Although the books belong to our school library, I will get to read some of them before they are shelved.

Then, I met my best friend for lunch. After lunch, I helped her try on glasses. Unlike me, she has never had to wear glasses before; so she said she needed my opinion. We had a great time trying on different frames. I'm due for a new pair soon; so I got her opinion, too. The sales associate asked how the two of us knew each other. I said, "We've been friends forever!" The sales associate congratulated us. Congratulations are in order when you've been best friends for 28 years!

Finally, I ran in to Target to buy my favorite Make-a-Size paper towels. I ventured back to the clearance aisle, knowing I would find Easter candy. However, I convinced myself that I WOULD NOT buy any candy UNLESS they had my very favorite Cadbury white chocolate mini eggs...and they had ONE BAG LEFT.

Now I am home. I admit that I am the hare, high-strung, plunging head-long into work and life...then conking out before I reach the finish line. But today, on the second day of my spring break, I am on the couch, eating white chocolate Easter eggs; and I have been captured by Kathy Appelt's new novel Maybe a Fox.  I am finally taking a break on spring break, and it's everything I'd hopped (I mean hoped) it would be.