Morris Hill

During my fourth grade year, I broke my leg on the first day of spring break. It was a perfect day for a bike ride; and although reading was my favorite thing, riding my bike was a close second. I rode my purple bike past the weeping willow tree at the corner, around the curve behind my elementary school, past my piano teacher's house; and then, against my better judgment, I stood up above the seat, pushing the pedals, propelling myself halfway up Morris Hill.
I was not an adventurous girl, preferring to read about adventures; but on that day, I dared myself to ride down Morris Hill. I was afraid...too afraid to start at the top of the hill; but halfway up was still so steep. I climbed off the bike and turned it around by the handlebars, dragging the back tire sideways. I stood beside the bike, convincing myself that the thrill would be worth the threat.
I slung my right leg over the seat, my toes barely touching the pavement. I knew when I lifted my feet, I could not turn back.
I was too scared to count down or even take a deep breath. I just lifted my feet onto the pedals, and I was flying. It was glorious and fast and fun. My hair streamed behind me, my jacket clung to my chest, my eyes were slits against the wind; but I could still see everything whizzing by in a grey green blur of sidewalk and shrubs.
I don't remember my back tire bumping the curb. I don't remember the crash or bumping my head on the low concrete wall; but I do remember opening my eyes to see my right foot tangled in the spokes of the back tire of my ruined bike.
My femur was broken, a terrible break, leaving my thigh nearly as ruined as my bicycle. I would spend 28 days in traction and even longer in a cast. Fortunately, I was a reader; and the weeks passed more quickly than they would have for a more adventurous girl. I read so many books that year that I won the read-a-thon. My prize was a $100 gift certificate to Sears, which I used to buy a new bike.

The Road to Wellness

This year, I decided to become a more flexible person, both mentally and physically. I knew it wouldn't be easy for me. I've always been very good at following rules and adhering to schedules, and I have always been very bad at exercising. However, a recent health scare (high blood pressure), and my doctor's consequent questions (Do you exercise regularly? Do you feel stressed? What are some things you enjoy doing?) caused me to merge reluctantly onto the Road to Wellness. I would rather have arrived at Wellness without making the difficult trip.
I signed up for Pilates, and along with my best friend, I showed up early for the first class. We unrolled the spongy mats they gave us, and I took off the gym shoes that I had purchased, ironically, to wear while exercising. Pilates does not require gym shoes. Some people, I noticed, were removing their socks as well as their shoes. I opted to leave my socks on since the tips of my toenails still had the scratched-up remains of some polish that I'd tried back in October. I made a mental note to remove the old polish before the next class.
We sat down on our mats. I tried to copy some moves that others were doing in order to warm up. The warm-up moves were not as easy as they looked. The backs of my knees would not flatten out against the mat. This definitely did not seem normal. When had I become so inflexible that I couldn't straighten my legs? I was going to be the worst in the class. I wondered if I should pretend I had an urgent call and leave. At this point, my mental inflexibility was kicking in. Not only was I physically inflexible, I was too mentally inflexible to try to become more physically flexible. I decided to stay, mainly because the other peoples' mats were blocking my exit.
The teacher was wearing yoga pants, a fitted top, and a cardigan sweater. She was going to lead exercises in a cardigan!? I had already broken into a nervous sweat, and the class had not even started. To my relief, the instructor walked back to my corner of the room and turned on a large oscillating fan. I still did not need a cardigan, but I was a little more comfortable.
She dimmed the lights, and class began. We worked for a long time on our breathing. I listened carefully as she explained the importance of breathing in and breathing out. As I lay there, on my mat, I became overly aware of the sounds of all of us breathing. I became so aware that I worried I was breathing too loudly. I have always been an overachiever. Someone was definitely breathing too loudly. I just wasn't sure if it was me. I held my breath for a few seconds to make sure I was not the loud breather. Satisfied that I was breathing at the right decibel, I waited for further instructions.
Most of the exercises were difficult for me, and a few of them were impossible; but the teacher kindly explained that we could modify. I was pleased that I had chosen a class that offered differentiated instruction. I struggled through the roll-ups, experienced a little success in the swim, learned how to force my belly button toward the mat ("as if a nail were pinning me there"), and followed directions when the teacher said, "Relax your face and neck." It was hard to relax my face and neck while pretending that a nail was pinning me to the mat; but I complied.
I didn't even try the seal; but I noticed that some other people in the class weren't ready for the seal yet, either. At least I didn't laugh out loud when the teacher demonstrated it. I was too busy breathing in and out quietly and relaxing my face and neck.
At the end of the hour, I felt a little stretched out, not only in my muscles, but also in my mind. I actually felt kind of...flexible.

The Corner of Spring and Pear

Between the ages of five and twelve, I lived with my parents and my sister in a little yellow house on the corner of Spring Street and Pear Street. I loved that house.
I loved its sunny color and the little green apron of a front yard. I loved that it was perched at the top of two hills and that it had a little bubbling spring out back. Long before we lived in the house, someone had built a stone wall to enclose the spring; and the stones had grown mossy and protective over the years. I loved that little spring. We once filled it with gold fish, and they grew to be longer than my hand. That spring seemed like it had its own special kind of magic.
My bedroom, in the little yellow house, had a window in the closet. The window was shaped like a hexagon, and it made the house look like it was winking at passersby. It didn't make sense to most people that my closet had a window; but it made sense to me. It was the perfect place to sit and read, or draw, or cut out paper dolls. The closet was quiet and private, a place to think and dream while sunlight flooded through the window and warmed the hardwood floors.
Last week, my seventh grade students were reading and writing about the meaning of home. While discussing a short section of a text about a young girl who was forced to leave her home, one of my students said, "When you grow up in your home, it's part of you. It's hard to leave yourself behind." I couldn't help but think of the house where I grew up. After all these years, I guess I'm still a little homesick for that yellow house; and sometimes I even miss the little girl I was when I lived there.

From Galley Street to Graceland

Yesterday morning, I almost talked myself out of participating in the March challenge. I wasn't sure I had 31 days of good stories to tell. I doubted I could come up with anything worth reading. Then I remembered one of my favorite family pictures...the one where our family is standing at the gates of Graceland.

About nine years ago, the four of us were on our way to Dallas, Texas, to visit my husband's mother. We had made the drive before; and we knew it was a long trip for two little guys. Jack was six, and Will was four. My husband suggested that we break the trip up by spending the night in Memphis. He had visited Graceland as a kid, and he thought the boys might like it. We decided to spend the night in a hotel, then tour Graceland the following morning.

The day started on a high note. Both boys enjoyed the night in the hotel, and they were anxious to see the fancy house where Elvis had lived. By the time we arrived at Graceland, their enthusiasm was impossible to contain. Freed from their car seats, they pulled us toward the gift shop. While my husband stood in line to buy our tour tickets, the boys and I browsed the racks of t-shirts and hats. Will tugged on my purse and pointed to an expensive porcelain figurine of the King. Miniature Elvis was dressed in a white pantsuit. He was wearing a red scarf and holding a tiny porcelain microphone in his sculpted hand. Will had found the souvenir he wanted.

"That's not a toy," I said. "You can't have that." I didn't realize that Will's desire for the $45 porcelain Elvis was far greater than his desire to follow through with our original plans for the day. My son demanded the porcelain Elvis and refused to leave the spot in front of the display case. By now, my husband had our tickets and had joined us in front of porcelain Elvis.

"What's going on?" he asked. I reached for Will's arm to lead him toward the exit door; and he actually stomped and jerked his arm free, snapping into a frozen position in front of the case. He was as unmoving as the Elvis that stared back at him from behind the glass. We were now attracting a crowd; and the start time stamped on our tickets was quickly approaching. My husband handed me the tickets and picked Will up. Will remained just as stiff as he had been in front of the case. My husband carried him that way out to the long, winding line of tourists. Once my husband finally set him down, Will crossed his arms over his chest and lagged behind us, making a conspicuous gap in the crowded line. Urged on only by his discomfort at the closeness of the strangers behind him, we made our way toward Elvis's house.

Of course the line led directly to a souvenir photo opportunity; and there we stood...at the gates of Graceland.  My husband, Jack, and I clustered together, forcing smiles for the camera. Will refused to smile or stand within arm's reach. His perfect day was ruined.

The irony of the situation was not lost on us; and over the years, all of us (including Will) have come to love that picture. It reminds us that, even if we're pretty sure we're not going to walk away from the day with the $45 porcelain Elvis, we should still enjoy Graceland when we have the chance.

Welcome to Galley Street

My Granny lived on Galley Street, although it wasn't called Galley Street until her town required street names for 911. In the event of an emergency, Granny's street had to have a name. We had had plenty of excitement, though maybe no real emergencies, when it was just a little nameless street in Glomar Holler; but we were all pleased when the street finally earned a name. I wondered why we had never thought to give it a name earlier. My grandparents, aunts, uncles, and great grandparents had lived there for the better part of a century.
I remember thinking that Galley Street sounded like the name of a street where a pirate might live. I loved it. It was deceptively cozy for a place where so many adventures had begun, just a little strip of blacktop that ended in an overgrown hillside that used to lead to my grandfather's vegetable garden.
It wasn't until years later that I began to think of Galley Street as the name of a street where, not only a pirate might have lived, but where a writer visited on weekends and summer days, a street where she walked barefoot, and picked apples, and rode her bike, and ate watermelon, and played horseshoes...
It occurred to me that a galley was not only a little ship's kitchen but also a writing proof, the messy, vulnerable part of the writing...the part that has extra wide margins so others can criticize or make recommendations or comments. Galley Street was where I spent hours as a child, when the margins of my life were wide; and although I carry with me years of recommendations and comments, I have no red-penned words of criticism from Galley Street. In fact, it was a place where everything I did seemed just right. It was a place where I gained confidence, where I felt like I could be whatever I wanted to be, and I wanted to be a writer.
I loved Galley Street because it was where Granny lived. She was the first writer who lived there, although she never considered herself a writer. She loved to read and quilt and watch game shows; and she told me stories and let me sort through the pictures in the picture drawer, stopping whatever she was doing to tell a story about each picture I held. She read everything I wrote and told me how much she enjoyed it.
Even now, as a seventh grade teacher, I try to be for my students what Granny was for me. I try to make my classroom like Galley Street, where we can have adventures and write about them and listen to wonderful stories...where no one feels criticized. I encourage them to write, and I tell them how much I enjoy everything they give me to read; but I stopped writing, really writing, years ago. I got bogged down by rejection and fear, and I forgot how it felt to be confident and creative.
I realize, though, that in order to help my students become better writers, I need to write with them. I need to go back to Galley Street, where writers and pirates were always welcome.