In my mind
stories unravel.
It's a messy business,
like a disorganized
sewing basket.
A hodgepodge of loose buttons,
Knotted threads,
A thimble from Gatlinburg,
A needle packet,
One lonely needle still stuck in place
His more adventurous brethren
scattered across the bottom of the basket,
fraternizing with straight pins.
A scrap of Velcro, hook-side only
matted with loose threads...
If only I could straighten it all,
make sense of it,
sew something
for Heaven's sake!
Instead, I sort through it,
frantically looking for
something that makes sense:
a new spool,
a carefully-rolled measuring tape,
a sharp pair of scissors...
hoping beyond hope
that a pattern will emerge.
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
Bird Mansion
As a teacher and a mom, I am amazed when my sons come home in the last few weeks of school with a brand new project assigned by their teachers. Often, these projects require working with a classmate outside school hours.
We have only 12 days remaining in the school year, state assessment testing begins tomorrow, spring sports are in full bloom (practices, games, tournaments), academic clubs are wrapping up with end-of-the-year parties, and my 16-year-old is knee deep in scrap lumber, power tools, spray paint, and bird seed.
With 12 school days remaining, his environmental science teacher assigned a project that requires my son and his teacher-assigned partner (who does not live in our neighborhood and whom I have yet to meet) to gather materials and work for several hours after school. The project also requires parent oversight and the use of an electric jigsaw.
When I arrived home from the Student Council pizza party and end-of-the-year PTSA meeting yesterday at 8:30 PM, I was stunned to find my husband and son working in the backyard in the glow of the porch light. A long extension cord connected the table saw to the outlet, sawdust was flying, and my husband was measuring plywood while my son consulted the detailed blueprint that he and his (apparently) invisible partner created during class that day.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"We're building a bird fraternity house," my husband explained.
"It's an assignment and a contest," my son said enthusiastically. "The winners get to choose a surprise for the whole class, and the teacher is going to buy it. We're trying to decide between pizza and donuts."
"I have an idea," I suggested. "Let's just go ahead and buy pizza and donuts for the whole class and scale this project down a little."
"No way!" my son said. "We've researched colors that attract birds, and we're making a two-story bird fraternity house. Do you know the Greek letters for BRD?"
"Beta, Rho, Delta?"
"I'll double check," he said.
"Maybe your partner could double check," I suggested.
"He's doing other work," my son assured me. I could not imagine what other work the partner could possibly be doing. Were the partner's parents involved in any way? Were they at home assembling tiny bird-sized furniture? I doubted it.
My son handed me the blueprint...a two story bird mansion, with tiny American flags depicted in the drawing, a roof-top garden for the birds' enjoyment, and a replaceable birdseed ring hanging from a dowel rod.
"Impressive," I said...and hours away from completion, I thought.
"It's gonna win...hands down," my son exclaimed. "Some other team brought in a plastic bottle with a string wrapped around it, and birdseed stuck all over it. Can you believe that?"
I couldn't help wondering if those kids had parents who, like me, were also teachers...teachers who did not assign a large-scale group project when summer break was practically around the corner...teachers who had to drive two different carpools three nights a week and finalize grades and organize academic awards and invite parents to end-of-year conferences and take inventory of classroom materials. Was it wrong of me to wish, for just a fraction of a second, that my self-motivated, over-achieving son would settle for turning in a plastic bottle covered with birdseed?
With a little sigh, I banished the thought.
We would help my son complete the ultimate end-of-the-year bird mansion/fraternity house. We'd accomplished similar feats before...the end-of-the-year eighth grade music video (which required green screen technology), the end-of-the-year food truck marketing project (which included 200 homemade meatballs), and the end-of-the-year social studies soundtrack (which featured songs about desertification).
"The winning birdhouse is going to go out back, behind the high school," my son said, still trying to convince me of the validity of the project.
"Well, in that case," I said, "keep up the good work!" Party on, birds, party on.
We have only 12 days remaining in the school year, state assessment testing begins tomorrow, spring sports are in full bloom (practices, games, tournaments), academic clubs are wrapping up with end-of-the-year parties, and my 16-year-old is knee deep in scrap lumber, power tools, spray paint, and bird seed.
With 12 school days remaining, his environmental science teacher assigned a project that requires my son and his teacher-assigned partner (who does not live in our neighborhood and whom I have yet to meet) to gather materials and work for several hours after school. The project also requires parent oversight and the use of an electric jigsaw.
When I arrived home from the Student Council pizza party and end-of-the-year PTSA meeting yesterday at 8:30 PM, I was stunned to find my husband and son working in the backyard in the glow of the porch light. A long extension cord connected the table saw to the outlet, sawdust was flying, and my husband was measuring plywood while my son consulted the detailed blueprint that he and his (apparently) invisible partner created during class that day.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"We're building a bird fraternity house," my husband explained.
"It's an assignment and a contest," my son said enthusiastically. "The winners get to choose a surprise for the whole class, and the teacher is going to buy it. We're trying to decide between pizza and donuts."
"I have an idea," I suggested. "Let's just go ahead and buy pizza and donuts for the whole class and scale this project down a little."
"No way!" my son said. "We've researched colors that attract birds, and we're making a two-story bird fraternity house. Do you know the Greek letters for BRD?"
"Beta, Rho, Delta?"
"I'll double check," he said.
"Maybe your partner could double check," I suggested.
"He's doing other work," my son assured me. I could not imagine what other work the partner could possibly be doing. Were the partner's parents involved in any way? Were they at home assembling tiny bird-sized furniture? I doubted it.
My son handed me the blueprint...a two story bird mansion, with tiny American flags depicted in the drawing, a roof-top garden for the birds' enjoyment, and a replaceable birdseed ring hanging from a dowel rod.
"Impressive," I said...and hours away from completion, I thought.
"It's gonna win...hands down," my son exclaimed. "Some other team brought in a plastic bottle with a string wrapped around it, and birdseed stuck all over it. Can you believe that?"
I couldn't help wondering if those kids had parents who, like me, were also teachers...teachers who did not assign a large-scale group project when summer break was practically around the corner...teachers who had to drive two different carpools three nights a week and finalize grades and organize academic awards and invite parents to end-of-year conferences and take inventory of classroom materials. Was it wrong of me to wish, for just a fraction of a second, that my self-motivated, over-achieving son would settle for turning in a plastic bottle covered with birdseed?
With a little sigh, I banished the thought.
We would help my son complete the ultimate end-of-the-year bird mansion/fraternity house. We'd accomplished similar feats before...the end-of-the-year eighth grade music video (which required green screen technology), the end-of-the-year food truck marketing project (which included 200 homemade meatballs), and the end-of-the-year social studies soundtrack (which featured songs about desertification).
"The winning birdhouse is going to go out back, behind the high school," my son said, still trying to convince me of the validity of the project.
"Well, in that case," I said, "keep up the good work!" Party on, birds, party on.
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
Not Good Enough for the Gander
This morning, a gander took a dip in our neighborhood pool. I heard him honking while I was walking the dog; so I stopped and watched him through the slats in the privacy fence. He was making a racket, honking loudly as he paddled around the pre-season murk of the deep end.
No doubt he was complaining about the cloudy water and the slick blobs of green algae splattered around the sides of the under-filled pool. He must not realize that the pool won't be ready for swimmers for three more weeks. We have a great deal of work to do.
Our pool has been in our neighborhood for many years; and while we don't have a swim-up tiki bar, a tube-shaped slide, or a lazy river, we have hours of memorable moments grilling hot dogs under the circus-striped awning and watching everyone's kids learn how to dog paddle.
My husband is assistant maintenance director for the volunteer coordinator of our neighborhood pool. It's a fancy way of saying he spends a great deal of time weed-eating outside the fence around the baby pool and replacing loose boards on the old, weathered, sunbathing deck. He carries a key to the gate and makes sure the brimming trash cans are pulled to the curb on pick-up days. As he chats with friends on the upper deck, he takes pride in the pool's tidy appearance...the little pots of flowers, the pressure-washed chairs, the carefully patched concrete.
My younger son tries to be the first one in the pool on Memorial Day and the last one out of the pool on Labor Day. He definitely logs the most hours there, his skin (in spite of layers of sunscreen) gradually deepens to a toasty brown. He has a group of friends, three boys and a couple of girls, who have made the pool their hangout for the past four summers. They run barefoot on the blistering surface of the adjoining tennis court and play wall ball, following a complicated set of ever-changing rules. They spread their towels on the deck and gather their allowance in order to have Jet's Pizza delivered poolside. Summer stretches ahead of them like a slow motion highlight reel.
Despite his busy schedule, my older son still finds time for the pool. He naps under the shade of a beach umbrella after varsity soccer two-a-days. Sometimes he sits on the edge of the pool with his long legs dangling in the water. He throws a spongy ball again and again to the little kids as they jump off the diving board. He throws the ball right into their hands so they can catch it triumphantly before making a splash.
As for me, I mark the summer hours by page numbers, reading novel after novel through my cheap sunglasses. I arrive early so I can claim my favorite chair. In one hand, I carry a vinyl book bag filled with library books and magazines; and in the other hand, I carry a Tervis tumbler filled with crushed ice and Diet Snapple. For eight weeks, I leave the worrying to the teenaged lifeguards; and I lie on the reclining deck chair with my eyes closed, tapping my flip flops to the background music of the ice cream truck.
"I can't wait for our pool to open," I thought this morning as I stood on the sidewalk, watching the gander shake his long neck in disdain. As the dog and I watched, the grouchy bird lifted off, still squawking his disapproval. I guess our little pool is not good enough for the gander, but it's good enough for us; and in my memories, it's better than good enough. It's perfect.
No doubt he was complaining about the cloudy water and the slick blobs of green algae splattered around the sides of the under-filled pool. He must not realize that the pool won't be ready for swimmers for three more weeks. We have a great deal of work to do.
Our pool has been in our neighborhood for many years; and while we don't have a swim-up tiki bar, a tube-shaped slide, or a lazy river, we have hours of memorable moments grilling hot dogs under the circus-striped awning and watching everyone's kids learn how to dog paddle.
My husband is assistant maintenance director for the volunteer coordinator of our neighborhood pool. It's a fancy way of saying he spends a great deal of time weed-eating outside the fence around the baby pool and replacing loose boards on the old, weathered, sunbathing deck. He carries a key to the gate and makes sure the brimming trash cans are pulled to the curb on pick-up days. As he chats with friends on the upper deck, he takes pride in the pool's tidy appearance...the little pots of flowers, the pressure-washed chairs, the carefully patched concrete.
My younger son tries to be the first one in the pool on Memorial Day and the last one out of the pool on Labor Day. He definitely logs the most hours there, his skin (in spite of layers of sunscreen) gradually deepens to a toasty brown. He has a group of friends, three boys and a couple of girls, who have made the pool their hangout for the past four summers. They run barefoot on the blistering surface of the adjoining tennis court and play wall ball, following a complicated set of ever-changing rules. They spread their towels on the deck and gather their allowance in order to have Jet's Pizza delivered poolside. Summer stretches ahead of them like a slow motion highlight reel.
Despite his busy schedule, my older son still finds time for the pool. He naps under the shade of a beach umbrella after varsity soccer two-a-days. Sometimes he sits on the edge of the pool with his long legs dangling in the water. He throws a spongy ball again and again to the little kids as they jump off the diving board. He throws the ball right into their hands so they can catch it triumphantly before making a splash.
As for me, I mark the summer hours by page numbers, reading novel after novel through my cheap sunglasses. I arrive early so I can claim my favorite chair. In one hand, I carry a vinyl book bag filled with library books and magazines; and in the other hand, I carry a Tervis tumbler filled with crushed ice and Diet Snapple. For eight weeks, I leave the worrying to the teenaged lifeguards; and I lie on the reclining deck chair with my eyes closed, tapping my flip flops to the background music of the ice cream truck.
"I can't wait for our pool to open," I thought this morning as I stood on the sidewalk, watching the gander shake his long neck in disdain. As the dog and I watched, the grouchy bird lifted off, still squawking his disapproval. I guess our little pool is not good enough for the gander, but it's good enough for us; and in my memories, it's better than good enough. It's perfect.
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
Fair Weather Friend
She was the daughter
of my parents' friends;
so we were thrown together
on weekends
and summer vacations at the lake.
Her dad's RV
had an aluminum door
that shocked my fingers
and made my elbow tingle.
I always had to knock.
She didn't like me.
I'm not sure why;
but I'd do in a pinch.
When no one else was around,
we linked arms and jumped off the pontoon.
She didn't like to read or draw;
and she wore halter tops
and white shorts.
We were both ten.
I looked it; she didn't.
We played cards and water-skied.
Our favorite song
was Sunshine on My Shoulders.
We played it over and over,
singing along to the scratchy 45.
Back at school,
she held her hand to her mouth
and whispered something.
The other girls laughed
and looked my way.
Her eyes darted in my direction
and lingered there,
just long enough
to let me know
the joke was on me.
But I knew a secret.
Somewhere behind her blue eyelids
and mean girl glances
lived a girl who knew all the lyrics
to John Denver's songs...
a girl who cried sometimes
when she sang the verse about wishes.
of my parents' friends;
so we were thrown together
on weekends
and summer vacations at the lake.
Her dad's RV
had an aluminum door
that shocked my fingers
and made my elbow tingle.
I always had to knock.
She didn't like me.
I'm not sure why;
but I'd do in a pinch.
When no one else was around,
we linked arms and jumped off the pontoon.
She didn't like to read or draw;
and she wore halter tops
and white shorts.
We were both ten.
I looked it; she didn't.
We played cards and water-skied.
Our favorite song
was Sunshine on My Shoulders.
We played it over and over,
singing along to the scratchy 45.
Back at school,
she held her hand to her mouth
and whispered something.
The other girls laughed
and looked my way.
Her eyes darted in my direction
and lingered there,
just long enough
to let me know
the joke was on me.
But I knew a secret.
Somewhere behind her blue eyelids
and mean girl glances
lived a girl who knew all the lyrics
to John Denver's songs...
a girl who cried sometimes
when she sang the verse about wishes.
Tuesday, April 21, 2015
Kindred Spirits in the Car Circle
Car circle duty is the one negative for teachers lucky enough to have end-of-the-day planning periods, the most coveted schedule in our building. Every year, our master schedule rotates, which means that each year one grade level of teachers enjoys back-to-back, end-of-the-day planning periods...just enough time to gather one's thoughts, make copies, plan for the following day, and meet with colleagues. End-of-the-day planning period means I don't have quite as many ungraded essays crammed into my book bag to take home over the weekend.
It's a wonderful schedule, really; but to keep us humble, we must cover car circle duty. We have more than 1,300 children in our school; and while many of our students are bus riders, and others carpool, and some have siblings in the building, it often seems that we have at least 1,300 cars inching their way around the pick-up circle.
On rainy days, we stand there, water puddling around our sensible shoes, rain dripping from the ribs of our umbrellas, our hair frizzing, our patience thinning.
"Hurry to your cars," we chant. "Look for your car, and be ready to get in."
We are thinking, "Please go home children. Please let us get out of the rain."
On cold days, we shiver in our hats and gloves and the mismatched layers we threw on before the final bell.
"Where's your ride? Do you need to call home?" we ask, through chattering teeth.
"Zip your jacket. Stand close together. Did you say you needed to call home?"
This year, even on snowy, rainy, and windy days, I have, surprisingly, looked forward to car circle. Somehow, in the drizzly, windy, flurrying course of the year, I have met two kindred spirits, one sixth grader (Sami) and one eighth grader (Zoe), who seek me out faithfully. While we weather the elements, waiting for their rides, we talk about books and friends; and we practice Pig Latin.
We have debated the benefits of hooded jackets over toboggans, philosophized over the beauty of dandelions, and taken a personality quiz. Sami read the questions, and Zoe and I supplied the answers.
For art class, Sami needed a piece of obsidian for the heart of her clay dragon; I managed to find a smooth black rock that suited her purposes to a tee. Zoe sometimes brings out Laffy Taffy for us to share. If one of us is absent, we know we are missed.
During school, Sami and Zoe have no classes together...and neither of them is in my class; but, for 20 minutes each afternoon, the car circle is a gathering spot for three kindred spirits.
The next time my turn for car circle duty rolls around, Sami and Zoe will both be in high school. Maybe the car circle will work its magic again, and I will meet two more students who share my love of stories and who don't mind speaking in a funny British accent some days just for the heck of it. Maybe not...but for the next 28 days, I will look forward to car circle duty, regardless of the weather.
It's a wonderful schedule, really; but to keep us humble, we must cover car circle duty. We have more than 1,300 children in our school; and while many of our students are bus riders, and others carpool, and some have siblings in the building, it often seems that we have at least 1,300 cars inching their way around the pick-up circle.
On rainy days, we stand there, water puddling around our sensible shoes, rain dripping from the ribs of our umbrellas, our hair frizzing, our patience thinning.
"Hurry to your cars," we chant. "Look for your car, and be ready to get in."
We are thinking, "Please go home children. Please let us get out of the rain."
On cold days, we shiver in our hats and gloves and the mismatched layers we threw on before the final bell.
"Where's your ride? Do you need to call home?" we ask, through chattering teeth.
"Zip your jacket. Stand close together. Did you say you needed to call home?"
This year, even on snowy, rainy, and windy days, I have, surprisingly, looked forward to car circle. Somehow, in the drizzly, windy, flurrying course of the year, I have met two kindred spirits, one sixth grader (Sami) and one eighth grader (Zoe), who seek me out faithfully. While we weather the elements, waiting for their rides, we talk about books and friends; and we practice Pig Latin.
We have debated the benefits of hooded jackets over toboggans, philosophized over the beauty of dandelions, and taken a personality quiz. Sami read the questions, and Zoe and I supplied the answers.
For art class, Sami needed a piece of obsidian for the heart of her clay dragon; I managed to find a smooth black rock that suited her purposes to a tee. Zoe sometimes brings out Laffy Taffy for us to share. If one of us is absent, we know we are missed.
During school, Sami and Zoe have no classes together...and neither of them is in my class; but, for 20 minutes each afternoon, the car circle is a gathering spot for three kindred spirits.
The next time my turn for car circle duty rolls around, Sami and Zoe will both be in high school. Maybe the car circle will work its magic again, and I will meet two more students who share my love of stories and who don't mind speaking in a funny British accent some days just for the heck of it. Maybe not...but for the next 28 days, I will look forward to car circle duty, regardless of the weather.
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
Nothing Quite Like a Bump on a Log
We have a class mascot. I found him a few summers ago at the camp where my parents live year round. He was lying on the gravel driveway, turned on his side. I couldn't believe my luck! He was the perfect class pet for my seventh grade students...quiet, required zero maintenance, and provided a great visual reminder. I rescued him.
He was a bump on a log, shaved off at the sawmill on the camp grounds when they were preparing wood to repair one of the boys' cabins. Now, he is a bump on a desk, keeping guard over extra pencils and bathroom passes. He is one of a kind, the only bump on a log allowed in my classroom.
Occasionally, students will pat him absently as they grab a tissue or borrow a clipboard. Some students have suggested names for him...Stumpy, Bob, Oscar. Otherwise, he doesn't get too much attention. He's happy, I guess, to go unnoticed...not really contributing to the class's progress, but always there...on the outskirts, taking it all in.
I can't help but wonder if he has spring fever. The students are infected with it; they are wiggly and restless and practically smell of sunshine.
Last week, I gave them a homework assignment: Bring a beach towel.
"We are going to think outside; no box required!" I told them. I saw the slogan on a t-shirt.
We carried our towels and books and journals outside and spread the towels out on the damp lacrosse field. Students sat in clusters or stretched out on their backs, holding their books up high to block the weak rays of the spring sun. Although the grass seemed dry, the ground was saturated, and the towels got damp. We were too enthusiastic to care. At the end of the day, I draped all the beach towels over the backs of the classroom chairs. Our bump on a log watched. The room smelled like earth and dew and April. I thought he seemed depressed.
If it stops raining, we will go out again this week. If it doesn't stop raining, maybe their homework assignment will be: Bring rubber boots and an umbrella. This time, we will take our bump on a log with us. We will all think outside, no box required, only one bump on a log allowed.
He was a bump on a log, shaved off at the sawmill on the camp grounds when they were preparing wood to repair one of the boys' cabins. Now, he is a bump on a desk, keeping guard over extra pencils and bathroom passes. He is one of a kind, the only bump on a log allowed in my classroom.
Occasionally, students will pat him absently as they grab a tissue or borrow a clipboard. Some students have suggested names for him...Stumpy, Bob, Oscar. Otherwise, he doesn't get too much attention. He's happy, I guess, to go unnoticed...not really contributing to the class's progress, but always there...on the outskirts, taking it all in.
I can't help but wonder if he has spring fever. The students are infected with it; they are wiggly and restless and practically smell of sunshine.
Last week, I gave them a homework assignment: Bring a beach towel.
"We are going to think outside; no box required!" I told them. I saw the slogan on a t-shirt.
We carried our towels and books and journals outside and spread the towels out on the damp lacrosse field. Students sat in clusters or stretched out on their backs, holding their books up high to block the weak rays of the spring sun. Although the grass seemed dry, the ground was saturated, and the towels got damp. We were too enthusiastic to care. At the end of the day, I draped all the beach towels over the backs of the classroom chairs. Our bump on a log watched. The room smelled like earth and dew and April. I thought he seemed depressed.
If it stops raining, we will go out again this week. If it doesn't stop raining, maybe their homework assignment will be: Bring rubber boots and an umbrella. This time, we will take our bump on a log with us. We will all think outside, no box required, only one bump on a log allowed.
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
Heavy Reading
We are all reading nonfiction this week. It's heavy reading. It was quiet at our house last night.
My husband, an elementary principal, is poring over Spencer Kagan's Win-Win Discipline in preparation for an upcoming interview for an administrative position in the district where we live (no more commuting = no more big chunk of the budget going toward gas!). The book is paperback, but it is as large as a textbook and dense reading despite the cartoonish illustrations. My husband is taking notes in his tidy block printing.
My 13-year-old fell asleep last night reading Lacrosse, North America's Game. It's a huge, hardback, coffee-table style photo-illustrated book about the history of the sport he plays. He lugged it into my classroom yesterday after school.
"Did you check that out from the library?" I asked.
"No. Mr. O. gave it to me." Mr. O. is his social studies teacher.
"He saw it at a yard sale for 50 cents."
This morning, before we left for school, Will flipped through the glossy pages to show me his favorite part so far.
It's an excerpt from a Native American origin story about the game.
My son pointed it out enthusiastically.
"This part is really good," he said.
"Stunned and rejected but not giving up on the game, the rodent took to the trees, climbing until he stood on the highest limbs with the eagles and hawks. The birds did not want to shun the little creature, but how could he join the team without any wings? Thinking quickly, the birds cut pieces from the skin on their ceremonial drum and fashioned wings for the rodent....That, is how the bat came to be."
I can tell that my son, small for his age but quick on his feet, thinks Mr. O's 50 cents was well spent.
My 16-year-old is reading Dale Carnegie's How to Win Friends and Influence People. After noticing someone reading it on the airplane on his recent trip to New York, Jack was convinced that he, too, wanted to win friends ("Not just make them," he said, "WIN them...") and exert some influence.
"It's been in print for more than 75 years!" he exclaimed. He walked through the house, carrying the small paperback in his hands.
"It says right here that you shouldn't criticize people." Was he directing that toward me? Had I said something critical? I looked around. I guessed he was just speaking in general.
"If you want honey, you don't kick the beehive. That's what Dale Carnegie says." Jack looked at me, his eyebrows raised.
"I'll take that to heart," I told him. He wandered off, his eyes fixed on timeless words of wisdom...penned in 1931.
I am reading Denise Jaden's Fast Fiction, advice for anyone trying to write the first draft of a novel in 30 days' time. Through the Slice of Life Story Challenge last month, I learned about Camp NaNoWriMo and decided it was time for me to get serious about the novel I'd been "working" on for years. Last week, I filled out my NaNoWriMo information page...book title, synopsis. I began writing. I was struggling.
On Sunday, two days ago, I woke up with a whole new idea...an idea I can't stop thinking about. I dreamed about it last night and woke up with a new conflict for my main character. The story is unfolding so fast, and the character is living and breathing on the page and in my dreams. I am more excited about my writing than I've ever been. I AM WRITING A NOVEL...and reading nonfiction that's cheering me on. All the while, I am thinking about a little bat with drum-skin wings and wondering if there is a type of discipline where we all win; and in the midst of it all, I am trying so hard not to kick the beehive.
My husband, an elementary principal, is poring over Spencer Kagan's Win-Win Discipline in preparation for an upcoming interview for an administrative position in the district where we live (no more commuting = no more big chunk of the budget going toward gas!). The book is paperback, but it is as large as a textbook and dense reading despite the cartoonish illustrations. My husband is taking notes in his tidy block printing.
My 13-year-old fell asleep last night reading Lacrosse, North America's Game. It's a huge, hardback, coffee-table style photo-illustrated book about the history of the sport he plays. He lugged it into my classroom yesterday after school.
"Did you check that out from the library?" I asked.
"No. Mr. O. gave it to me." Mr. O. is his social studies teacher.
"He saw it at a yard sale for 50 cents."
This morning, before we left for school, Will flipped through the glossy pages to show me his favorite part so far.
It's an excerpt from a Native American origin story about the game.
My son pointed it out enthusiastically.
"This part is really good," he said.
"Stunned and rejected but not giving up on the game, the rodent took to the trees, climbing until he stood on the highest limbs with the eagles and hawks. The birds did not want to shun the little creature, but how could he join the team without any wings? Thinking quickly, the birds cut pieces from the skin on their ceremonial drum and fashioned wings for the rodent....That, is how the bat came to be."
I can tell that my son, small for his age but quick on his feet, thinks Mr. O's 50 cents was well spent.
My 16-year-old is reading Dale Carnegie's How to Win Friends and Influence People. After noticing someone reading it on the airplane on his recent trip to New York, Jack was convinced that he, too, wanted to win friends ("Not just make them," he said, "WIN them...") and exert some influence.
"It's been in print for more than 75 years!" he exclaimed. He walked through the house, carrying the small paperback in his hands.
"It says right here that you shouldn't criticize people." Was he directing that toward me? Had I said something critical? I looked around. I guessed he was just speaking in general.
"If you want honey, you don't kick the beehive. That's what Dale Carnegie says." Jack looked at me, his eyebrows raised.
"I'll take that to heart," I told him. He wandered off, his eyes fixed on timeless words of wisdom...penned in 1931.
I am reading Denise Jaden's Fast Fiction, advice for anyone trying to write the first draft of a novel in 30 days' time. Through the Slice of Life Story Challenge last month, I learned about Camp NaNoWriMo and decided it was time for me to get serious about the novel I'd been "working" on for years. Last week, I filled out my NaNoWriMo information page...book title, synopsis. I began writing. I was struggling.
On Sunday, two days ago, I woke up with a whole new idea...an idea I can't stop thinking about. I dreamed about it last night and woke up with a new conflict for my main character. The story is unfolding so fast, and the character is living and breathing on the page and in my dreams. I am more excited about my writing than I've ever been. I AM WRITING A NOVEL...and reading nonfiction that's cheering me on. All the while, I am thinking about a little bat with drum-skin wings and wondering if there is a type of discipline where we all win; and in the midst of it all, I am trying so hard not to kick the beehive.
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