All Tucked in on Galley Street

At night,

on Galley Street,

Granny buttoned up the house.

She locked both locks

and checked them twice

and pushed steel wool

in the crack under the basement door

to keep the mice away.

 

Then she checked on me.

"Warm enough?"

Always.

I slept on the couch,

tucked under the corduroy crazy quilt.

The grandfather clock stood guard.

Papaw and Granny slept in their room,

leaving the door open

in case I needed anything in the night.

 

I fell asleep to their synchronized snores,

his rumbling grumble and her whiffling snuffle.

Out back,

on the other side of the river,

a train whistle blew.

 

Just outside the glow of the porch light,

stories unfolded as I slept.

The next day,

I looked for them,

balancing on the cracked stone wall,

jumping over the drainage ditch.

 

I tasted stories in green apples

picked from my great grandfather's tree.

I read them

in the crisscrosses

of Granny's perfect embroidery stitches.
 

Galley Street was filled with stories,
and I collected them like shells, or stones, or feathers.
I kept them safe
until I was ready to share them
with the world.

Thanks to all of you who have visited Galley Street this month! If not for the Slice of Life Writing Challenge, I may not have taken the time to remember what a magical place Galley Street was for me as a child and is for me, now, as a writer. If not for Two Writing Teachers, I know I would not have had the opportunity to visit all the wonderful places in this neighborhood of readers and writers. I have learned so much, and I have had so much fun! Stop by Galley Street any time. You're always welcome.

Spring Break, Sons, Shopping, and Chocolate

My younger son and I took my older son to the airport today. Their grandmother, a retired flight attendant, is treating him to a belated birthday trip...four days in New York City. Jack has never flown alone before, and I was a little worried. Without boarding passes, we couldn't walk with him to the gate; so we had to say our good-byes at security.
Will and I waited and watched as Jack put his suitcase and backpack on the conveyor belt, walked through the scanner, and gathered his stuff up again.
"Did you see him put his wallet back in his pocket?" I asked.
Will said he did.
Jack turned and waved to us once more before climbing on the escalator. We watched until the escalator lifted him slowly out of our line of sight.
Jack likes to be on the go.
Jack will be fine. He was excited.
Will and I will be fine; but we were sad.
We turned around and headed for the exit. My shoulders slumped a little. This will be the first spring break ever that we all haven't been together...whether at home or on vacation. While that fact alone makes me sad, it makes me sadder to think that in only two years we'll be sending Jack off to college.
Will put his arm around my shoulders.
I put my sunglasses on.
"Are you crying a little?" he asked. I wasn't, but I was thinking about it.
Will, who normally hates to shop, suggested that the two of us go to the mall. He said he needed new shoes. It was a good distraction.
We spent the afternoon trying on tennis shoes, eating soft pretzels, and browsing through the lacrosse section at the sporting goods store.
I bought a few things on sale; but Will couldn't find the shoes he wanted.
We made our way to the car.
"I'm leaving here feeling a little incomplete," he said. I wasn't sure if he was just talking about the shoes.
"We'll order a pair for you," I told him.
"I'd also kind of like a fondue fountain," he said. I wasn't sure if he really had a sudden urge for free-flowing chocolate, or if he was just trying to think of something to keep my spirits up.
Either way, he made me smile.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

I grew up in a small town, where everyone not only knew my name...but my parents' names and my grandparents' names and my great grandparents' names. As I grew older, it felt a little too small at times, like a hairband that keeps your bangs in place but pinches behind the ears. I loved every minute of growing up there, but I longed to be a little fish in a big pond instead of a goldfish in a glass bowl.
I decided on a big state university in a medium-sized city and, though I moved to another state for a year after graduation, I eventually settled in the same city where I'd earned my bachelor's and graduate degrees. I love the city where we live. It's big enough to get lost in; but small enough to have favorite places and shortcuts and run into people you know...on occasion.
Every once in a while, though, I get an urge to be a "regular" someplace...to go somewhere where they know me and how I like my coffee and exactly what I like on my sandwich, without me having to remind them. I want to be like Norm or Cliff from Cheers and trade fun-spirited, spunky remarks with a kind-hearted Coach and a snarky, but loveable, Carla. I guess this desire harkens back to the days when I sat at the big bench seat in Don's Restaurant and always had a grilled cheese sandwich with pickles on the side. Maybe it's a lingering memory of the dozens of times I walked up to the snack bar at Rexall's, and the lady behind the counter always knew I'd take either an Orangeade or a Lemon Sour.
Sometimes I just want to be recognized and understood and predictable and appreciated and known.
A couple years ago, my husband and sons and I discovered a barbecue place that we all loved. I announced that I'd like to become a regular there. Actually, I think I said that I was going to become a regular there. I decided, in order to do this, I would order the same thing, fixed the same way, every time I visited. I always ordered the baked potato topped with pulled pork...every time.
Every time, I was disappointed when I went to pick up the to-go order and someone different was at the counter. This was never going to work if I had to introduce myself to someone new every visit. Why did they have so many employees? Still, I kept at it. I placed my order and explained that I wanted the sour cream on the side...again.
They always asked how to pronounce my last name. I never became a regular.
After several visits, I gave up. My older son was with me when we went to pick up our call-in order for the last time.
I felt ridiculously sad.
"I just really wanted them to know me...you know...like a regular...like, even if they didn't know my actual name, they could at least call me by the name of my usual order when I walked in the door..."
My son glanced behind us at the overhead menu board and then at the bag of Styrofoam carry-out containers in my arms. He knew my usual...the loaded potato with the pulled pork on top. I got it every time.
"You know, Mom," he said, with wisdom beyond his years. "I don't think you would have liked it if you walked in the door and they called you 'Phat Spud.' That is the name of what you get, you know."
I'd never thought about that.
We had a good laugh. Maybe I was recognized and understood and predictable and appreciated and known after all. I definitely did not want to be called Phat Spud, even if it meant I was a regular.

There's No Place Like Home

I'm not ashamed to admit that I loved playing with Barbie dolls. I never noticed the fact that Barbie and her friends were demeaning to women of all ages based solely on their unrealistic shapeliness and their flawless faces. It wasn't about Barbie's appearance. I didn't care if her hair got stiff and snarly or if she lost one of those teensy pink heels that were impossible to keep on her permanently tippy-toed feet. It was all about the stories. I had millions of stories sprouting and blooming in my head, and I was desperate to pluck them out...to give the characters a voice.
Barbie, Ken, Skipper, Midge, PJ (an updated version of Midge), and Scott (Skipper's friend) suited my purposes to a tee. I played with them every day...always immersing them in one drama or another. My parents and grandparents fed my addiction, branching out from Barbie and friends to buy other Barbie-sized dolls for me...Dolly Parton, The Captain and Tenille, Sonny and Cher, Donny and Marie Osmond. My characters had grown into an ensemble cast.
I could entertain myself for hours.
My sister, who was four years younger, was not aware of the intricate plot twists I had prepared for each Barbie session. She was more interested in dressing the dolls up and "coming to visit." While my Barbies were embroiled in the heat of an argument or the throes of despair, my sister would walk her doll over to my area of the playroom and make her give an awkward stiff-armed knock on the invisible door that separated my area from hers.
Irritated by this interruption, my Barbie whipped the invisible door open and stood there expectantly.
"Yes?!?" I made my doll say.
"Can I borrow some bread?" my sister's doll asked. Seriously. That was her only line.
While I am not ashamed of playing with Barbies, I am ashamed to say that my doll usually shouted, "I'm out of bread!" or "Buy your own bread!" or something equally harsh, turned on her little plastic heels, and slammed the invisible door on my sister's doll, barely missing her tiny chewed-up plastic fingers.
My sister would retreat to the other side of the playroom and watch as I acted out the scene where my one-armed Skipper brought everyone to tears with her brave gymnastics routine.
Then, one day, tragedy struck. I was playing outside in the fenced-in front yard. It was a sunny day, and my Barbies were spread out on the lawn, the front porch stoop, and the concrete walkway. I had multiple story lines playing out in my head, maneuvering from one scene to the next when I realized I needed to take a quick break to go inside and use the bathroom. I was only gone for a few minutes, thinking the whole time about the next chapter in one of the many ongoing sagas my dolls were acting out for me. I hurried back out to play some more only to find that my favorite doll, Dorothy, was missing. I knew exactly where I'd left her, and she wasn't there. I was stumped. I walked, then crawled, from one pile of dolls to the next, raking my hands through the short grass. Where was she? I found her tiny yellow woven basket with the little gray Toto still inside; but Dorothy was gone. I retraced my steps, looking carefully in the bathroom just in case I had carried her in with me...no sign of her. She was missing. No one in my family seemed to know anything about her disappearance. I gathered up my other dolls and put them away for the day. Dorothy was gone. The next few afternoons, my Barbie stories were devoted to mourning her loss. Barbie and friends moved on; but I always wondered what in the world had happened to Dorothy.
A few years ago, my sister and I were talking about toys we'd had as kids and how we wished we'd kept them in mint condition and wouldn't we make a fortune on eBay, and then I wistfully mentioned the day that Dorothy went missing. My sister was uncharacteristically quiet.
I stared at her.
"Do you know what happened to Dorothy?" I asked.
She looked a little sheepish.
"I thought you knew," she said.
"Knew what?" I asked.
"I thought you knew that I took Dorothy that day and hid her in the basement in a hole in that cinderblock wall."
I couldn't believe it. After all those years, I had discovered Dorothy's fate; and it was just as horrific as I'd imagined.
"Well you should go right back there and get her...at least see if she's still there!" I said.
"We haven't lived in that house in 29 years!" my sister exclaimed. "Those people will think I'm crazy if I ask to go into their basement and look for a doll I hid there three decades ago."
"I can't believe you did that," I said, my voice brimming with indignation. Then I remembered all the times I'd ignored her while my Barbies and I acted out one adventure after another. I knew, in my heart, that Dorothy's abduction had been partly my fault. My little sister had just wanted to play. I should have given her all that imaginary bread she'd asked to borrow and maybe Dorothy would have been spared. At least I finally knew what had happened to my favorite doll.
That Christmas, following my sister's confession, she seemed especially excited for me to open my gift from her. I unwrapped the box to find Dorothy, circa 1974, mint condition, the little woven basket with Toto included. Granted, it wasn't my Dorothy; but it was the thought that counted. Come to think of it, I should have given my sister a loaf of bread.

S'more Than Enough

1 field trip
3 weeks of planning
1 purchase order
98 permission slips
3 multiple receipt forms
2 bus orders
1 money bag
1, 568 dollars
5 dollars in change
1 box of band-aids
2 inhalers
1 EpiPen
98 kids
6 teachers
1 parent volunteer
2 bus drivers
30 minutes on the road
45 degree weather
8 challenge guides
2 get-to-know-you games
16 challenges
1 scraped shin
98 sack lunches
1 campfire
300 marshmallows
100 Hershey bars
600 graham crackers
25 roasting sticks
980 sticky fingers
98 sticky faces
1 final challenge
196 muddy tennis shoes
30 minutes on the road
5 thank you hugs
15 "Best field trip ever"s
98 smiling faces
S'more than enough for
1 tired teacher

Library Fines

I love the library...always have, always will; but I am not in good standing at our local library right now. I have a fine. This is not the first time, and it is not fine with me.
When I was growing up, the librarian at our elementary school trusted me implicitly. Her name was Ms. H., and she had the tiniest little pair of round, frameless glasses that she actually peered over and around in order to look at us. She loved to read scary stories aloud, and actually read stories that were so scary that some parents complained to the principal. It didn't seem to faze Ms. H. When she wasn't reading us horror stories, she sat at her big oak desk and read books to herself while whole classes of little kids roamed around her library unsupervised. The teachers, assuming Ms. H. was in charge, always took a break during our library hour. Sometimes we had to say Ms. H.'s name a couple of times to get her attention. Even so, I thought she was wonderful.
Right away, she realized how much I loved books. When new boxes of books were delivered to school, she would let me carry the boxes from the office to the library where she entrusted me with a box cutter (still can't believe this) and left me to unpack the new books while she read. I was in heaven. I can still remember carefully slicing through the packing tape, worried lest I scratch up a book inside...never mind about slicing off my fingers. I would peel open the box lid and run my hands over the colorful covers. Then I would select a book, lift it out, and always, always open it and smell the pages. I still love the smell of a book...new, old, musty, hardcover, paperback.
No one who knew me then would have believed that I, mini assistant librarian at the age of 10, would ever...EVER, be in bad standing at any library; but I am.
Several years ago, I checked out a huge stack of folk tale collections to share with my class. When I returned the books to the library, in the same plastic milk crate I had carried them out in when I checked them out, the thin little book of Jack tales was gone. I traipsed back out to my car and searched under the seats and in the trunk as if I thought perhaps the book itself was as big a trickster as its main character. Of course, the book was not in the car. I promised the librarian I would check my classroom; and I did. I asked students to check their lockers and their backpacks. I emailed all the parents and asked them to look around their houses. We never found the book. I had to buy it...from the library. It was expensive; and, since the book had disappeared, I had nothing to show for my money. I consoled myself with the fact that at least my borrowing privileges were reinstated.
I took it on the chin and continued checking out.
Then, a couple of years ago, another book in my possession met an unfortunate end. Books are always traveling around in the car with me...tucked in the glove box, in the center console, in the side compartment of the driver's side door, in the stretchy pocket on the back of the passenger seat. Somehow, one of these special passengers ended up in the backseat floorboard...right next to the leaky water jug my son takes to soccer practice. It didn't turn out well. I had to buy the book...from the library. Apparently, water damage is the unpardonable sin. This time, I got to keep the book which was still completely legible, just a little wavy across the top. I put it on my shelf at school.
My borrowing privileges were reinstated; and I carried on...a little more cautiously then before.
Now, it has happened again. During our recent snowy winter, I checked out many, many books. I left them stacked neatly on the bench beneath my kitchen window. That window has never leaked...never. It was a very safe and responsible place to stack my books.
The window leaked.
A book got wet. I know the drill. I will now have to buy the book...from the library. The librarian does not know, nor would she ever believe, that I once was the MOST privileged little person in our elementary library...that I was the FIRST to welcome books into our school and unpack them and shelve them. I used the box cutter for heaven's sake and never had a single incident! Nothing bad happened to any book on my watch.
I can barely stand the thought of going in to the library to admit that I have damaged yet another book. In order to avoid the inevitable shame, I have let the fine add up for a couple of weeks. This weekend, it will all come to a head. I will have to build up the nerve to face the raised eyebrows and knowing glances of the librarian. Where is Ms. H. now...when I need her most? Where is that blissfully oblivious librarian who trusted me completely?

Tacky Splendor

My students and I have had so much fun this year with Myra Cohn Livingston's book I Am Writing A Poem About...A Game of Poetry. In the book, Livingston explains how she challenged the students in her master poetry class and how they rose to the challenge. Livingston initiated the Game of Poetry by requiring her students to write a poem that included the word "rabbit." After the poems were written and shared, she amped it up a notch and asked each student to submit some words for the next round. This time, students were required to write a poem containing three seemingly unrelated words: ring, drum, and blanket. Spurred on by the success of their poetry, the students continued until they had six words to puzzle into poetry.

My students were fascinated by the poems featured in Livingston's book; and we discussed, at great length, the images and themes that emerged from the juxtaposition of the words. They marveled at how different the poems were and were impressed that the poetry students had not sacrificed meaning for rhyme. We investigated the various poetry forms: free verse, haiku, limerick... My students wanted to give it a try; so we did.

I carried around my little red bucket, and students tossed in nouns they'd scribbled on scraps of paper. I closed my eyes and chose a word, wrote it on the whiteboard, and we began. Their enthusiasm was infectious. We couldn't stop. Two weeks and four rounds later, I found myself faced with the words flamingo, turtle, marshmallows, and seahorse. These kids couldn't be serious! I was stumped. I worried and worked the words around in my head like marbles in a wooden maze. Finally, I came up with the following poem...about retirement. These children were making my brain hurt. After sharing my poem with the class and taking a quick bow at their polite applause, I couldn't help but wonder how in the world I could even think about retiring when I was having so much fun.

Tacky Splendor

One day I will retire

in tacky splendor...
where I will read books
in a yellow and white striped lawn chair,
with a faded pink flamingo
reading over my shoulder.

I will take salty morning walks

and sweep sand out the kitchen door...
and track sand in again.

I will hang a lighthouse painting
on the wall behind the couch
and worry over a nest of turtle eggs,
protected by a makeshift fence.

I will wake up early enough
to find unbroken shells washed ashore;
but I will collect the broken ones anyway.

I will roast marshmallows
on a driftwood fire,
and marvel at the dancing rainbow flames.

For now, I will settle for a herd of seahorse magnets,
corralled on the refrigerator door;

But one day...
I will call a beach house...

“Home.”