The forecast called for three inches of snow,
and the weatherman said not to doubt it.
Excitement mounted as the big snow approached.
We'd gone weeks into winter without it.
The buses would slide in their morning commute;
their tires would fail to get traction.
Some called off school before one snowflake fell;
Yes, most neighboring districts took action.
Our district did not - no, they waited for proof;
so we soldiered on through the flurries.
A half day perhaps? We just dared to hope;
but the hope only fizzled to worries.
By noon it was clear that the forecast was faulty.
The closed schools had jumped to conclusions.
Anyone hoping for sledding and cocoa
clearly suffered from snow day delusions.
We worked at our desks, feeling grumpy at best.
Our dreams of snowmen were fading.
At least we wouldn't have to make up the day;
so we trudged through assignments and grading.
Like Christmas morning without any gifts,
or the 4th of July with no fireworks show,
a bunny free Easter, a starless night sky...
it was a snow day without any snow!
Snow days are gifts for all to enjoy
and pity the person who doesn't;
but for those at home waiting or those of us working,
today was a miserable snow day that wasn't.
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
Happy Birthday from Galley Street
Granny knew she was not the best cook. She had a few dishes that she had mastered...vegetable soup, soup beans, meatloaf, and gingerbread or jam cake (for something sweet at Christmas). She cycled through her standbys regularly, adding cornbread here, a slice of fried bologna there. She made it clear that she would rather be reading than cooking.
My birthday was the exception...which made it an exceptional day. Granny tried to be the first to wish me a happy birthday, calling long before my alarm clock was set to ring.
"Happy birthday to you," she warbled, singing the whole song enthusiastically off-key. "Happy birthday, dear Lorrrrri. Happy birthday to you!"
For dinner on January 5th (or as close to that date as we could manage), she fixed my favorite...salmon patties. She used canned "Double Q" pink salmon.
"Always pick out the little bones," she advised, as she carefully sorted through the salmon with her fingers. She added flour, egg, cornmeal, salt and pepper; then she patted the fish into round cakes about the size of the palm of her hand.
She set the skillet on the burner and poured in two caps full of Wesson oil. The gas under the burner flared blue.
While she fried the salmon patties, we talked about school and books and TV shows.
Sometimes she told stories about when she was a girl...how she used to pretend she was an opera star while she washed the supper dishes. I could just imagine her looking out her kitchen window, soap bubbles up to her elbows, singing made-up words in a loud vibrato (poor on tone, but rich with emotion).
Grown-up Granny set the salmon patties on a folded paper towel on top of a plate. We served ourselves, two salmon patties each, a heap of fried potatoes, a puddle of ketchup...a birthday feast.
While we ate, we talked. Conversation paused only long enough to chew and swallow. We lingered at the table, plates empty except for the paper towel on the serving dish. It was stamped with rings of golden oil where Granny had set the salmon patties so they wouldn't taste too greasy. Granny thought of everything.
After a while, she capped the ketchup bottle.
My birthday had begun with her song and ended with the two of us side by side. While I washed the dishes and she dried, we talked. Conversation continued, our birthday opera in a language all our own, accompanied by the clink of glasses, the clatter of silverware, and the gurgle of soapy water swirling down the drain.
I was another year older; and thanks to Granny, I was a little wiser. She knew how to make a birthday something special.
My birthday was the exception...which made it an exceptional day. Granny tried to be the first to wish me a happy birthday, calling long before my alarm clock was set to ring.
"Happy birthday to you," she warbled, singing the whole song enthusiastically off-key. "Happy birthday, dear Lorrrrri. Happy birthday to you!"
For dinner on January 5th (or as close to that date as we could manage), she fixed my favorite...salmon patties. She used canned "Double Q" pink salmon.
"Always pick out the little bones," she advised, as she carefully sorted through the salmon with her fingers. She added flour, egg, cornmeal, salt and pepper; then she patted the fish into round cakes about the size of the palm of her hand.
She set the skillet on the burner and poured in two caps full of Wesson oil. The gas under the burner flared blue.
While she fried the salmon patties, we talked about school and books and TV shows.
Sometimes she told stories about when she was a girl...how she used to pretend she was an opera star while she washed the supper dishes. I could just imagine her looking out her kitchen window, soap bubbles up to her elbows, singing made-up words in a loud vibrato (poor on tone, but rich with emotion).
Grown-up Granny set the salmon patties on a folded paper towel on top of a plate. We served ourselves, two salmon patties each, a heap of fried potatoes, a puddle of ketchup...a birthday feast.
While we ate, we talked. Conversation paused only long enough to chew and swallow. We lingered at the table, plates empty except for the paper towel on the serving dish. It was stamped with rings of golden oil where Granny had set the salmon patties so they wouldn't taste too greasy. Granny thought of everything.
After a while, she capped the ketchup bottle.
My birthday had begun with her song and ended with the two of us side by side. While I washed the dishes and she dried, we talked. Conversation continued, our birthday opera in a language all our own, accompanied by the clink of glasses, the clatter of silverware, and the gurgle of soapy water swirling down the drain.
I was another year older; and thanks to Granny, I was a little wiser. She knew how to make a birthday something special.
Tuesday, December 29, 2015
Driving Lessons
My 16-year-old son, Jack, is driving now. Of course, he won't take his road test until January 12th, so he can only drive with me or with my husband. Jack doesn't enjoy driving with either of us.
"Dad's too mean, and you're too scary," he said.
"Too scary? Did you mean too scared?" I asked. "I'm not scared."
"I didn't mean scared. You're too scary," he explained. "The entire time I'm driving, you remind me of how the car can be a deadly weapon. Last time you said, 'Watch out at the intersection. Even though you stopped on time, another car could run the light and T-bone you.' I don't need that kind of encouragement, Mom."
Jack prefers to drive with Otis, one of the local driving school instructors. Otis shows up in his dented car (not kidding), climbs out of the driver's seat, hands Jack the keys, and says, "You ready to burn it up, boy?"
Otis taught Jack how to parallel park and promised to take him over the road test course prior to his test date. Jack says Otis is neither mean nor scary. Otis says Jack is a great driver. Jack says Otis gives just enough instruction, more than my husband (who waits tight-lipped for Jack to goof up, all the while white-knuckling the door handle) and less than I give (a steady litany of all the horrible things that could happen if he is not 100 percent attentive 100 percent of the time). Otis just goes along for the ride.
I'm a teacher. I have been a teacher for 22 years. My husband is principal of an elementary school. Teaching is what we do. We should have been able to teach our own son how to drive a car. Instead, we turned to good-natured Otis, a different kind of teacher. Otis is a man whose patience has been road tested by hundreds of teenagers over the years...each one presenting a different sort of challenge...too timid, lead foot, overly confident, slow to react, not attentive enough, uninformed, or just plain frightened. Despite the various needs of his students, Otis approaches each student driver with the understanding that he or she will eventually learn to drive. He or she will eventually pass that test. For some, it may take several tries; others might be natural-born drivers. Regardless, Otis is a passenger on their journey, a smiling, encouraging, patient, optimistic passenger who reminds them to use their mirrors and their turn signals and instructs them on proper etiquette at a four-way stop.
Otis is a master teacher; and I'm thankful that my son, my husband, and I have had a chance to learn from him.
"Dad's too mean, and you're too scary," he said.
"Too scary? Did you mean too scared?" I asked. "I'm not scared."
"I didn't mean scared. You're too scary," he explained. "The entire time I'm driving, you remind me of how the car can be a deadly weapon. Last time you said, 'Watch out at the intersection. Even though you stopped on time, another car could run the light and T-bone you.' I don't need that kind of encouragement, Mom."
Jack prefers to drive with Otis, one of the local driving school instructors. Otis shows up in his dented car (not kidding), climbs out of the driver's seat, hands Jack the keys, and says, "You ready to burn it up, boy?"
Otis taught Jack how to parallel park and promised to take him over the road test course prior to his test date. Jack says Otis is neither mean nor scary. Otis says Jack is a great driver. Jack says Otis gives just enough instruction, more than my husband (who waits tight-lipped for Jack to goof up, all the while white-knuckling the door handle) and less than I give (a steady litany of all the horrible things that could happen if he is not 100 percent attentive 100 percent of the time). Otis just goes along for the ride.
I'm a teacher. I have been a teacher for 22 years. My husband is principal of an elementary school. Teaching is what we do. We should have been able to teach our own son how to drive a car. Instead, we turned to good-natured Otis, a different kind of teacher. Otis is a man whose patience has been road tested by hundreds of teenagers over the years...each one presenting a different sort of challenge...too timid, lead foot, overly confident, slow to react, not attentive enough, uninformed, or just plain frightened. Despite the various needs of his students, Otis approaches each student driver with the understanding that he or she will eventually learn to drive. He or she will eventually pass that test. For some, it may take several tries; others might be natural-born drivers. Regardless, Otis is a passenger on their journey, a smiling, encouraging, patient, optimistic passenger who reminds them to use their mirrors and their turn signals and instructs them on proper etiquette at a four-way stop.
Otis is a master teacher; and I'm thankful that my son, my husband, and I have had a chance to learn from him.
Tuesday, October 27, 2015
Trick or Treat Tradition
When my boys were little, I decided to start a Halloween tradition. While my husband took our sons around to Trick or Treat the neighbors, I stayed home and made homemade hot chocolate. I could hardly wait for my pint-sized Indiana Jones and Tigger to get home. I imagined the four of us, sipping hot cocoa from stoneware mugs as the boys sorted their candy and described the costumes they'd seen. They would always remember our Halloween hot cocoa! We would treasure this tradition. I barely gave them time to dump their treats out of their jack-o-lantern buckets and onto the counter before asking, "One marshmallow or two?"
Jack burned his tongue on his first sip; and Will was much too interested in the little bag of Halloween trinkets the neighbor had dropped into his bucket to even give his hot cocoa a taste.
The tradition didn't take.
The next year, I tried a different tactic...the "Make Yourself Sick Milkshake." I bought a gallon of vanilla ice cream, set up the blender, and invited the boys to toss in whatever candy they wanted for a one-of-a-kind Halloween taste sensation!
Jack chose cookies and cream Hershey bars and a Reese's cup. Will tossed in Butterfingers and a couple of Gummy Bears. Both boys were thrilled at the idea of making themselves sick on their original milkshake flavors. A tradition was born.
Word spread fast. The next year, Jack's friend, Zach, joined in. Each year since, additional friends have enjoyed our unusual tradition. Not only do my sons invent new and more disgustingly delicious milkshake combinations each Halloween, but more and more of their friends have started stopping by after Trick or Treat to toss a handful of candy into my blender.
Last year, six teenaged boys crowded around my kitchen, gulping down various ice cream and candy concoctions.
To date, no one has actually made himself sick; but they certainly have put forth their best effort...Snickers and York Peppermint Patties; candy corn, Hershey's kisses, and caramels; Skittles and Sour Patch Kids. It might not be the Hallmark Halloween moment I had in mind when I laboriously melted chocolate in a saucer on my stovetop all those years ago; but our annual "Make Yourself Sick Milkshakes" have done exactly what traditions should do...provided us with something to look forward to and something to remember.
Jack burned his tongue on his first sip; and Will was much too interested in the little bag of Halloween trinkets the neighbor had dropped into his bucket to even give his hot cocoa a taste.
The tradition didn't take.
The next year, I tried a different tactic...the "Make Yourself Sick Milkshake." I bought a gallon of vanilla ice cream, set up the blender, and invited the boys to toss in whatever candy they wanted for a one-of-a-kind Halloween taste sensation!
Jack chose cookies and cream Hershey bars and a Reese's cup. Will tossed in Butterfingers and a couple of Gummy Bears. Both boys were thrilled at the idea of making themselves sick on their original milkshake flavors. A tradition was born.
Word spread fast. The next year, Jack's friend, Zach, joined in. Each year since, additional friends have enjoyed our unusual tradition. Not only do my sons invent new and more disgustingly delicious milkshake combinations each Halloween, but more and more of their friends have started stopping by after Trick or Treat to toss a handful of candy into my blender.
Last year, six teenaged boys crowded around my kitchen, gulping down various ice cream and candy concoctions.
To date, no one has actually made himself sick; but they certainly have put forth their best effort...Snickers and York Peppermint Patties; candy corn, Hershey's kisses, and caramels; Skittles and Sour Patch Kids. It might not be the Hallmark Halloween moment I had in mind when I laboriously melted chocolate in a saucer on my stovetop all those years ago; but our annual "Make Yourself Sick Milkshakes" have done exactly what traditions should do...provided us with something to look forward to and something to remember.
Tuesday, October 6, 2015
Passing Through
Yesterday, my family had lunch in Tyronza, Arkansas, population 762.
My husband's grandmother passed away late last week. She was 89. A retired cook for the Ingram Barge Company, G.G. lived for many years near the Mississippi River before retiring to her home state of Texas. At some point, she and her husband, Chester, bought burial plots in the little farming community of Tyronza. Chester has been buried there since 1973. Yesterday, the funeral director from Donnelly's Colonial Funeral Home in Irving, Texas, drove G.G. to Tyronza.
We met him there. Under a blue tent and a bluer sky, we said good bye to G.G.
Each of my sons took a pink rose from the spray on the casket so we could press the flowers in our family Bible. I gathered up a tuft of raw cotton that had blown over from the cotton fields across the road.
It was a solemn occasion, commemorating a woman who loved to laugh.
Afterward, we went to the only restaurant in town, Tyboogie's Café. We called ahead to make sure they could accommodate a party of 18. They said, "Come on over."
We all sat together at three long wooden tables. Mismatched vinyl tablecloths made it seem like a picnic. Tyboogie's was not just a café; it was an antique store, featuring a pair of size 72 men's blue jeans pinned to the wall...a warning of what might happen if one ate too often at Tyboogie's. We had to laugh.
My husband's cousin, Jana, bought a porcelain figurine holding a delicately-painted, tiny, porcelain umbrella. Her mother, Judy, bought a geode, its glittering crystal exposed, the whole thing mounted on a chunk of Styrofoam. My boys bought Tyboogie's t-shirts.
While we waited for our lunch, we admired a caricature of Willie Nelson, a cardboard box filled with pieces of petrified wood, a collection of German beer steins, pink and white Christmas ornaments, a display case holding bullets from the Civil War, an old player piano (all the way from Chicago, Illinois!), and a collection of antique baby dolls.
We ate fried catfish, homemade hushpuppies, country-fried chicken covered in white gravy, cheeseburgers piled high with slices of red onion.
We didn't even have room for dessert.
We needed Tyboogie's yesterday...the atmosphere, the comfort food, the laughter. We ate in the middle of an unfamiliar room, surrounded by family. We took in (and took home) reminders of past times and other lives, reminders that we are all just passing through...passing through the little town of Tyronza, passing through this big life. It comforted us to realize we were all leaving behind bits of ourselves, some as soft as tufts of cotton, others as surprising as crystals hidden in a stone; some as fragile as a porcelain umbrella, others as solid as a piece of wood turned to rock.
G.G. would have loved Tyboogie's.
My husband's grandmother passed away late last week. She was 89. A retired cook for the Ingram Barge Company, G.G. lived for many years near the Mississippi River before retiring to her home state of Texas. At some point, she and her husband, Chester, bought burial plots in the little farming community of Tyronza. Chester has been buried there since 1973. Yesterday, the funeral director from Donnelly's Colonial Funeral Home in Irving, Texas, drove G.G. to Tyronza.
We met him there. Under a blue tent and a bluer sky, we said good bye to G.G.
Each of my sons took a pink rose from the spray on the casket so we could press the flowers in our family Bible. I gathered up a tuft of raw cotton that had blown over from the cotton fields across the road.
It was a solemn occasion, commemorating a woman who loved to laugh.
Afterward, we went to the only restaurant in town, Tyboogie's Café. We called ahead to make sure they could accommodate a party of 18. They said, "Come on over."
We all sat together at three long wooden tables. Mismatched vinyl tablecloths made it seem like a picnic. Tyboogie's was not just a café; it was an antique store, featuring a pair of size 72 men's blue jeans pinned to the wall...a warning of what might happen if one ate too often at Tyboogie's. We had to laugh.
My husband's cousin, Jana, bought a porcelain figurine holding a delicately-painted, tiny, porcelain umbrella. Her mother, Judy, bought a geode, its glittering crystal exposed, the whole thing mounted on a chunk of Styrofoam. My boys bought Tyboogie's t-shirts.
While we waited for our lunch, we admired a caricature of Willie Nelson, a cardboard box filled with pieces of petrified wood, a collection of German beer steins, pink and white Christmas ornaments, a display case holding bullets from the Civil War, an old player piano (all the way from Chicago, Illinois!), and a collection of antique baby dolls.
We ate fried catfish, homemade hushpuppies, country-fried chicken covered in white gravy, cheeseburgers piled high with slices of red onion.
We didn't even have room for dessert.
We needed Tyboogie's yesterday...the atmosphere, the comfort food, the laughter. We ate in the middle of an unfamiliar room, surrounded by family. We took in (and took home) reminders of past times and other lives, reminders that we are all just passing through...passing through the little town of Tyronza, passing through this big life. It comforted us to realize we were all leaving behind bits of ourselves, some as soft as tufts of cotton, others as surprising as crystals hidden in a stone; some as fragile as a porcelain umbrella, others as solid as a piece of wood turned to rock.
G.G. would have loved Tyboogie's.
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
Taco Tuesdays
We celebrate Taco Tuesday
under the picnic shelter
beside the football field.
Around us,
rain slices through the gray day.
Drops ping on the pavilion roof.
In the distance,
seventh graders slosh across the sidewalk...
trudging, skipping, stomping toward electives.
We unwrap foil-covered tortillas
filled with spicy chicken,
thick with cheese.
We lift our plastic water bottles...
a toast to Tuesdays
and rain-soaked leaves.
We make a second toast
to our newly retired math teacher
who looks ten years younger...
and who misses us enough
to bring us tacos
even on a rainy day.
under the picnic shelter
beside the football field.
Around us,
rain slices through the gray day.
Drops ping on the pavilion roof.
In the distance,
seventh graders slosh across the sidewalk...
trudging, skipping, stomping toward electives.
We unwrap foil-covered tortillas
filled with spicy chicken,
thick with cheese.
We lift our plastic water bottles...
a toast to Tuesdays
and rain-soaked leaves.
We make a second toast
to our newly retired math teacher
who looks ten years younger...
and who misses us enough
to bring us tacos
even on a rainy day.
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
Corduroy Season
The weather is lovely; and though I don't want to rush across this bridge from summer to autumn, I can hardly wait for corduroy season. In a few weeks, it will be chilly enough for me to slip into my favorite cords. I have several pairs.
Last season, I went to the mall to buy a new pair. Some of mine were ragged around the hem and worn thin in spots. I was pleasantly surprised to find several stores with various styles and colors on display. As I sorted through the stacks of pants, looking for my size, the teen-aged sales girl said, "Corduroys are coming back in style again."
"That's wonderful!" I exclaimed. My cheeks were doubly pink, equal parts enthusiasm and embarrassment. I never realized they went out of style.
I have loved corduroy for as long as I can remember. My great grandmother stitched a corduroy crazy quilt, pieced lovingly from fragments of overalls and jackets and winter jumpers...all worn by her 12 children and some grandkids, too, I'm sure. Though she made the blanket long before I was born, I spent many nights curled under it on Granny's couch. Its weight meant good dreams, a warm sleep on a cold night, wrapped up in memories.
When I was 12, I convinced my mother to buy me a full-length, burgundy corduroy skirt. I wore it to our family's typically informal Thanksgiving dinner. I loved it.
It was so long, it dragged the ground.
Papaw said, "Why are you all dressed up, girl? Are you going somewhere after?"
"No, Papaw," I explained. "It's brand new. It was in the window at Watson's. It's corduroy."
"I hope you're comfortable in that get-up," Papaw said doubtfully.
I was. The brand new skirt was stiff, and I had to pick off a few dried leaves that had stuck to the hem on my way in; but I still felt pretty, in an old-fashioned way.
And now Fall is here, and the night breeze whispers promises of bonfires and sweaters and pumpkins...and corduroy. How could the fabric of hard work and family and teddy bears and crazy quilts ever go out of style?
Last season, I went to the mall to buy a new pair. Some of mine were ragged around the hem and worn thin in spots. I was pleasantly surprised to find several stores with various styles and colors on display. As I sorted through the stacks of pants, looking for my size, the teen-aged sales girl said, "Corduroys are coming back in style again."
"That's wonderful!" I exclaimed. My cheeks were doubly pink, equal parts enthusiasm and embarrassment. I never realized they went out of style.
I have loved corduroy for as long as I can remember. My great grandmother stitched a corduroy crazy quilt, pieced lovingly from fragments of overalls and jackets and winter jumpers...all worn by her 12 children and some grandkids, too, I'm sure. Though she made the blanket long before I was born, I spent many nights curled under it on Granny's couch. Its weight meant good dreams, a warm sleep on a cold night, wrapped up in memories.
When I was 12, I convinced my mother to buy me a full-length, burgundy corduroy skirt. I wore it to our family's typically informal Thanksgiving dinner. I loved it.
It was so long, it dragged the ground.
Papaw said, "Why are you all dressed up, girl? Are you going somewhere after?"
"No, Papaw," I explained. "It's brand new. It was in the window at Watson's. It's corduroy."
"I hope you're comfortable in that get-up," Papaw said doubtfully.
I was. The brand new skirt was stiff, and I had to pick off a few dried leaves that had stuck to the hem on my way in; but I still felt pretty, in an old-fashioned way.
And now Fall is here, and the night breeze whispers promises of bonfires and sweaters and pumpkins...and corduroy. How could the fabric of hard work and family and teddy bears and crazy quilts ever go out of style?
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