Time Keeps On Slipping, Slipping, Into the Future...Unless You Teach. Then Not One of the Clocks Works Correctly in the Building.

I'm not the first to write such a post and I definitely will not be the last. I'm having flashbacks to my K-12 teaching days when kids were always late from a particular math room because the teacher always kept them over the period's time. Of course, she blamed it on clocks, but we had them all synched. We were in good shape, but her mathematical skills never transferred to time-telling. Our faculty grew accustomed that students from a particular math course would always be five-minutes late, no matter how many ways we tried to get the behavior adjusted. 

We just went with it. 

Now, I've been in many high schools where every clock in every room is at a different time. It fascinates me that a building built on factory-efficiency and data-paranoia, never addresses the fact that there are so many times being named throughout the day. We want kids to be responsible, but our clocks are all #@$#$@ up. 

This, however, is not just a K-12 thing.

Exhibit A. Fairfield University. They put digital clocks throughout all the buildings and in all the hallways. Unlike K-12 schools, families invest astronomical amounts of money to give their lovelies and geniuses a chance in the world. All the loans, all the financial aid, and all the savings, however, can not get a school institution to work out the issue of time. This is ironic, however, as we are always telling our students how time is of the essence, and efficiency is success. 

Unless you teach. The entire enterprise seems to make educators look like fools. Not a single clock matches ever, and everyone gets confused, perplexed, and humored by the insanity. Does anybody ever really know what time it is? Does anybody ever really care?

On Wednesdays, I know I finish teaching at 9:15 p.m. - and with student questions and inquiries, I'm usually out of the room by 9:30. I then go to my office to pack up, head to my car, and drive home, knowing I can make it by 10 p.m. if I-95 is flowing (which it wasn't last night, so I took back roads). Ah, but on the way out, I took pictures of the two clocks displayed before the parking lot. It was 9:27. I was the only car in the parking lot (during the day, there tends to be more). And both these clocks were absolutely wrong. 

No wonder I leave work so exhausted. And now I'm wondering if we should work with elementary education faculty to work with administrators and technicians on how to tell time. I do know the church bells ring on the hour, usually at the exact right time. Now, if only we can get the buildings in synch with the secrets they seem to know we'll be all set..

And just like that I'm filing this in a folder of "Universals Needing to be Addressed."

This Approaching 50-Stuff is Coming at Me In Stereo...When Grad Students Find It Difficult to Simply Plot the Story of Wizard of Oz

I need to update my tools. Wizard of Oz is no longer in the repertoire of stories a majority of kids know. They know of it, but don't know it. Drawing on Best Practices in Writing Instruction and a chapter on Narrative Writing we 'piggy-backed' on the arc of The Three Little Pigs to plot a story of our own (Freytag's pyramid...basic, late elementary-school stuff). The problem was in recall. The storyline was not engrained in the head of the learners, which is a demonstration that I'm getting old.

To be fair, the graduate students were kind with the prompt, although they said they will think of something that might be more in the grasp than Dorothy, Toto, and the moral of the story, "There's no place like home."

Now, I knew I was out-of-vogue with music (shucks, I've always been out of touch with music), but I guess I thought Wizard of Oz was still a family ritual, because...well, isn't it? 

It's not. 

I had to coach the crews with this, and I've learned my lesson. What has worked for 12 years with grad classes is over and I now think I'd be better with a children's book shared in class and then a tracing of the arc....all to prove a point for helping young writers with their own beginning, middle, and end.

Oh, I'm an episode of The Chair I am. 

Actually, I made this point to the students in which case they came to my defense saying that I still have the works of good instruction, but that flying monkeys need to be retired. I thought going to children's classic was the surest way to assure the point I was trying to make. Whomp. Whomp. Whomp. It is no more.

Well, time to get the heating pad, some denture cream, and to schedule that colonoscopy. This was my bad. I own it. I just never thought I'd see such a day. Que sera sera. And I thought the loss of running 10 miles a day was a blow to my ego. I mean, Geez.

New Welcome Mat on Mt. Pleasant (Not a Froad, but a Nisse)...I Can Live With That. Gnome Sweet Gnome

I'm probably one of a few who look under mushrooms and in rocks for gnome-life, simply because I think gnome-life would be pretty cool. Way back in 2003 (I think it was 2003), we had a quest to find gnomes in Denmark. Tiana bought me a great book, and thematically we focused on Danish folklores and storytelling. It was fun. But, we didn't capture any gnomes.

Then, reading the Harry Potter series, I was rather excited so many lived outside the Weasley's home. I was horrified, perplexed, and peeved, however, that they never made the cut to any of the movies. What were they thinking?

Sadly, my frog mats faded (Welcome to the Lily Pad) as did the seasonal-exchange mats my mother bought me. The sun on the front steps is brutal - I don't think too many could endure the full sun that shines there.

I picked up a couple of table clothes for the new table, too. Obviously I stopped by CTS, followed by Lowe's - my dishwasher died over a year ago and I'm just now getting around to replacing it. I don't mind doing dishes by hands - reminds me of all those years on Main Street with my grandma in Sherburne. 

Concentrating on grading and classes today, and editing POW. Phew. Also need to finish a grant report. Slow and steady wins the race and Lord knows I'm running all day (albeit very slowly).

Why did the Nisse love going to the dentist? Because he liked being gnome. (ba dum dum ch)

Slowly Rearranging the House to Get Ready for the Fall. Garage Emptying. Thankful That Chitunga Came For a Visit

Sundays are meant as catch-up days. I knew Chitunga was coming, so I began cleaning the house in anticipation of rearranging some furniture, including the generous table-gift from Dan and Beth to replace the dining room set Chitunga took for his apartment. It is/was definitely too heavy for me to lift on my own, and I needed his help, which he graciously provided. 

The trick, however, is that it didn't fit through the sliding glass doors, even after we took off the bumpers, and then when we brought it around to the front, it missed the front door by 1/4th inch so we had to take the door off. We got to work, though, despite Karallyne's uber excitement to see her brother and the fact that an open door meant she could run after dogs and walkers traveling by. 

Needless to say, Karal was on punishment and wasn't allowed to go with us to Kris and Dave's for dinner (which was the usual deliciousness that it always is). Tunga and I made a salad and grilled vegetables, as well as brought store potato salad.

I also manage to hit send on what I hope to be final edits for a February publication, and began putting some of the piles of books away onto shelves (although I'm running out of book cases to store all the books coming my way). 

Karal doesn't seem to mind that she was at the head of the Mt. Pleasant shit-list this past Sunday, simply falling back to her 1-year old puppy normalcy. The absolute spasticity she shows around Chitunga is absurd. She's out-of-control with love for the kid....well, man.

Okay, Monday. I see you. I'm wiping sleep out of my eyes and drinking coffee. The frigid temperatures arrived and we're definitely no longer with summer. And I predict I'll regret moving as I did yesterday, but I'm beyond thrilled and thankful to have the help.

Lawn is mowed. House rearranged. New ideas ahead. Adulthood. Who'd of ever guessed it would all be this way? But we're getting it done.

When the Ranger Collects Words She Heard Throughout a Day & Challenges Teachers to Use Them However We Wish. #WriteOut 2021

Ranger Kristin Lessard was eavesdropping yesterday. She listened attentively, stole, and threw our language right back at the 15-teachers and me. If we wanted, she challenged, "Use them to write about what you're thinking." 

The words came in one page, three columns, and 90 in total, and I woke up this morning, simply letting each cascade into another, attempting to create something that captured my morning mood, thoughts, worries, and beginning angst for the day. It's a draft, of course, and I'm likely to play more. I'd much rather do this than massage my frustration with the hypocrisy of higher education (which is probably showing up in the cynical way I played here). 

I'm thankful to Rich Novack & Kristin Lessard for partnering with CWP once again on making Reading Landscapes & Writing Nature: Flooded with Possibilities happen for the 5th year in a row. I'm even more blessed (and appreciative) that writer Ann E. Burg visited and shared her time with our teachers on the 2nd day of the professional development. My heart is full. Yesterday was spectacular.

This Too Shall Pass (the 90-word poem)

We are made from the calm, 

the continuity of time

stressed by the temptation 

of finding a piece of mind…

that one blade of grass,

or a meaning from the piliated woodpecker’s shrill,

or that worm dried upon concrete driveways

where the soil has failed them.

 

I suppose therapy comes from 

reminiscing our histories 

letting it flooding our minds, 

to calm reflections,

with semblances of peace,

that ripple seduction,

draws us in, 

lies to us

that we’re not as guilty

of the human-made

chains that deny us 

our freedom. 

 

To me, the unknown is sacred, 

holding secrets of life 

that sometimes arrive with whispers 

of Buddhist intentions.

            All life is suffering, 

I only have a few days a week

to heal, protect, and cherish others…

    the lessons told by Maude…

            Mother Earth. 

 

So, I didn’t stop the car,

nor call for help, 

when I saw the Volvo

hit the fledgling doe.

I just observed

 the darkness,

as headlights, those illuminated streams

beamed before frustrated honks

and where human eyes ignored the forests, 

the places to run, the chance to be alive.

 

Ponds are life.

Lakes are stories.

All rivers bring fluidity.

 

Sometimes the skies tell the truth 

with sunshine and storms,

clarity and hail,

whispering to listen

to the movements of 

our ignorance, 

 connecting us for a moment,

in vast illusions

of meaningful meaninglessness.

 

Behind closed eyes,

the depth comes from such darkness,

making the quiet crystal clear and obvious.

 

How can I not scream

in all this quiet? 

Haven’t we all walked 

upon beaches or trails

where our trash ruins the scene?

 

I have memories,

or are they possibilities,

that explore the metamorphosis of 

the butterfly -

the care within a cocoon -

the breathtaking occurrence

for creating wings.

It takes love, generations, life-cycles

& scenery for such migration

 to cross autumn skies.

 

But where did all the milkweed go?

 

Waterfalls remain

evidence of the obstacles

that water knows from

glaciers to oceans, 

where land wishes 

for another story

to be told. 

 

Vistas are memories,

grandmothers that swim in shorts

and bras, sisters who make up 

games on the lake, 

days that are fished with fathers.

 

I’m a recovering environmentalist.

It's that easy. 

That word is meant for humans.

A statement that forgets how

temporary/weak/limited we are…

… against the larger 

            novels being written

                that we'll never be able to read.

 

Vacations 

on Island shores

are exploitive photographs

for the

privileged 

to keep in scrapbooks. 

Look. I once existed. 

I wasn't able to see.  

Spring and summer

are leaving now. Fall & winter

will bring more honesty...

 

And it’s beautiful. 

 

But for many, the

community is small – 

thinking differently

against that cascade 

with hubris,

the stroll of achievements,

the race towards goals,

& the rush to prove just how

human we actually are.

More power comes from the pause. 

 

A greater purpose

for capturing

words onto a page

before the buildings

and monuments 

crash into the ground,

and pop the bubbles

on the surface of happy places. 

 

If only we could swim

with the dolphins,

baptize meaning

in the twists and turns

of a crisper spirituality

more attune to the hypocrisy,

with the curiosity & the disasters

arriving from the harm we cause, 

rather than a cure.

 

We are flooded 

with yesterday’s 

foolishness.

Nation islands of

territorial stupidity.

 

There's strength in possibility, though,

a hope for doing good,

(with that extra ‘o’ in God), 

both grief-stricken & guilty

for knowing too much,

yet acting too little.

 

Today, I had a chance at

re-wilding once again, 

tasting a Nosturiam for the 

first time, with a peppered reminder 

there’s still so much I yet to know.

Libraries triumph in such 

vegetation…

    …the flavors

        ripple on the tongue

           relocated

             into useless words.

Requiems with justice.

Burgs that jut forward 

into testimonies

        that are more honest 

            about what we’ve been taught

                to believe.

 

So how can I not relax 

when I know there are others 

loving / to believe / in hope?

    When I’ve been given permission to explore

    & connect with lands, native to many,

    and not just me?

 

Yes, the leaves are turning red,

and soon they will fall,

 

We're only a season

for now.

 

Proud of #WriteOut. Proud of @CWPFairfield. Proud of the Teachers Coming to Join Us @WeirFarmNPS. Proud of @WritingProject

It's our second meeting this term. This time, however, not online, after an orientation hosted digitally and the fact that all of last year was conducted via ZOOM & with Padlet (and it was amazing). Even so, nothing beats actually being at Weir Farm National Historical Park. It is one of Connecticut's best kept secrets and Ranger Kristin Lessard is an absolute gem! Pearl! Joy! The prize inside a Crackjack's box. Dr. Richard Novack (recently granted his doctoral degree from Columbia University) and also a Fairfield University grad, is once again at the helm. AND YES, he was in the first cohort of teacher-leaders I was graced to work with during my first summer Invitational Leadership Institute at Fairfield University.

I can't wait to journal, hike, think, question, and paint today under the blue skies of September. Julian Alden Weir was an impressionist painter and although I'm not savvy with watercolors and pastels, each year I appreciate that the park gives me opportunity to try. #WriteOut 2021. I can't wait for it all to begin.

Really, though, the celebration is simply being outdoors, surrounded by like-minded educators, and given an opportunity for Reading Landscapes & Writing Nature...year five of our National Park partnership. We are extra-thrilled, too, that author Ann E. Burg, Flooded, will travel from New York to visit with us during our day at the park (are we lucky or what?). Working with her book has been the most amazing part of 2021. We are focusing on water studies (writing and thinking) this year and have educators from NY, CT, Vermont, and Massachusetts joining us. Ann's poetic narrative, brilliant like all of her work, interrogates stories that were, could have been, and potentially were born as a result of the Johnstown flood of 1889. Who becomes responsible when tragedy, that could have been prevented, strikes?

And with that, I need to pack up the hulk (my Subaru) and head outdoors. I hope you're able to get fresh air today, today, with deep breaths, wide steps, and a focused eye. Make art. Write. Bring a book. Listen. The best stuff is always free. Aim for emancipation each and every day.

Seven Weeks Later - Um, Yeah. 15-hour Workday Yesterday. Um, Yeah. Next 24 Hours, Insane. Um, Yeah. I Am Channeling You Karal

True story. I had Frosted Mini-Wheats at 7 a.m. yesterday morning and finally got a salad at 7:30 p.m. - it's the work we do. There were deadlines, meetings, information sessions, school visits, advising, grant-work, and planning. I look in the mirror and don't even recognize myself. In fact, I get angry. I look terrible. It is a beautiful life...

The exhaustion is very real. 

I'm channeling my dog who never sits still. She is lying still here and I appreciate her for it.

Today is a series of school visits, all while being obligated for a faculty retreat. Meanwhile, I hit "submit" on two major grants and need to hit "submit" on the acceptance of minor revisions on a major project. 

But, truth here. I'm still in discomfort. You know when you take a cloths pin and put it on an earlobe or hose (tell me you've never done that?). Well, that is what I feel like, but it's a clamp on my inner thigh. I believe it is muscular, but I also can feel the hernia shifting for a new way to push itself out of my tissues and muscle. It's not fun. It hurts.

Again, channeling the dog. Rest. Peace. Joy.

Okay, Friday. Here we go. 

Rest dog. Rest. I appreciate the sentiment.

It's Thursday, I'm Zonked. Grants are Submitted. Publications in Press Edited. And I Wrote a List Poem, So There's That & a Turkey On A Bench

Did I write that I was summoned for jury duty? Of course I was. This is the 5th time since living in CT, and I must be a good candidate. I got home at 10 pm last night after being in schools at 8 a.m., and I was like, "Really? Now you want to take me away from the work I do so I can sit in court for hours upon hours upon hours."

Gobble gobble gobble.

And on the bench outside the CWP office sat this Tom as I left one building to teach in another. He was noisy and wanted me to know that he was enjoying his seating arrangement. Par for the course. 

Ah, the turkey metaphor is all there is.

On Being Summoned to Jury Duty (Again)

I got the mail

after checking Twitter,

messaging mom,

texting teachers,

scrolling that book of faces,

& deleting Spam.

Yes, I remembered to order

the online parking pass

but neglected to suck up the dog-hair-

bunny-rabbit dust on the staircase.

(cough cough)

of course the chicken

is still raw

& the garden

needs harvesting

for salad).

Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!

Grading! Grading! Grading!

God, Oh, God,

Why did I just waste 35 minutes 

making a canine-clip

for Suzie Q’s hair. 

Woof. Woof.

=SUM (D4..D36)

accounting words

for writing projects

in hopes of 

resources for

teachers and schools

that excel.

Hit submit.

Acevedo,

I will clap 

when I finish your book,

promise,

but for now I landed

on jury duty

(again).

Folks aren’t dead,

just called, 

hoping rain

washes leaves

and mouse poop

from porch,

before Saturday’s 

nature-romp with 

Julian Weir, journals,

paintbrushes, easels, 

& ecological 

word-play. 

Prayers up 

for that baby deer,

last night

lying in the middle

of Black Rock Turnpike

paralyzed by

a BMW

hurrying 

somewhere.

nowhere.

everywhere.

(those eyes)

(the back legs)

Human beings suck.

Weather channel checked.

Storms coming

Fuck. 

Toenails 

need cutting.

Objection.

This Dutch boy 

needs his finger back.

I need to lose 

Covid-weight

by Friday

Catching Up on #EthicalELA Open-Write September & a Thought About Driving Home in the Dark Where Deer Jump Across Streets

My poem is not about a deer, although I've written about them before. Rather, I have a poem about my school nick-name, Mr. Moonbeam, and how I was enshrined with the title by a little guy in the first week of his schooling. Somewhere, Bonnie Cecil has the children's book I wrote and she had illustrated - would love to see that in print somehow. 

Nope. I came home another way because I wanted to get groceries.

Sadly, a little doe was struck in the back legs crossing Black Rock Turnpike, and the lady who hit her was on the side of the road. Traffic was backed up for miles, and I can see the face of the deer, still alive, struggling as to what she should do. Her back legs weren't working. I couldn't help but see Glamis and Karal in her eyes. She was just being a deer. Humans and their vehicles...their roads...their speed...and their need to be everywhere at once. Can't help but look in the eyes of lamed deer and see God, always trying to teach us something - humans suck. Period. Easy lesson to learn.

Anyway, on a happier note, I loved being Mr. Moonbeam and thoroughly enjoyed writing a poetic rendition of the story where I got the name. That's my poem for this humpday.

Mr. Moonbeam

On a rug made of 

threaded A, B, C’s

& the 1, 2, 3’s of reading buddies,

we sat in anticipation of a book - 

these little stars entering the tradition

of bureaucracies before the tests,

squirming like kittens and puppy dogs

in a pen just waiting to be picked up,

taught how to hold a pencil

and color a world of possibilities.

He looked up at me,

this gigantic

man squatting upon 

a kindergarten chair

wondering exactly who 

I was supposed to be. 

“We know who we are,” he said

behind folded arms and puckered lips,

“But who are you?”

I didn’t know. I had 17- and 18-year olds

kicking and screaming from 3 floors up,

wanting to gossip, sleep, and hate

everything they knew as school.

We were mentors, I suppose.

Traditions. Goliaths

with sweaty armpits

and lip liner

trying to be 

older than we were.

“I don’t know who we are” 

I responded, tucking that book

under an arm and trying to be coy

in a playful adulting voice.

“I’m guess I’m a teacher.”

He knew otherwise.

He seemed to know

of frogs, dragonflies,

turtles, fish, rabbits & ducks.

He knew the power of words,

letters, story-telling and hope…

the insecurity and the guessing…

the pretending and the performance.

“No you’re not,” he attested,

becoming a mayor of 5-year olds,

and political empire to 

soon-to-be graduates. 

“They are the Moonbeams. 

And you…

you are Mr. Moonbeam.”

Sometimes it’s funny

how the light trickles

from nightly stars

and sheds light on ponds 

and lily-pads. 

The cattails really

are spectacular.

“Well, I guess I am,” 

I admitted, returning to the book.

That was a phase

where I felt full, 

like a crescendo

blaring the obvious.

“Yes, that is who I am.

Mr. Moonbeam.”

A September Full Moon to Kick-Off a New Work Week, A Busy Schedule, & A Reminder of What Matters Most

I think I always will stop everything to watch a full moon rise over Charles Island on Walnut Beach. An I-Phone can't capture the exquisiteness of such an occasion, but I have the sight locked in my brain synapsis and I understand the wonder and beauty for what it is. In a photo, it looks like a freckle upon the darkening sky, but in person, it is amazing, overwhelming, and brilliant.

Sunday's #EthicalELA prompt was to have an out-of-body experience, and I went with humor writing about routines one is used to when having a dog...a poem about a pretty crappy subject. And so here it goes.

Shhh. On Adulting.

…it happens, shhh,

I whispered into a Mic

several years ago

while commencing tassels.

I anticipated the emails

about tact & sense of humor - 

but the evidence was very clear.

The fresh bird droppings 

drooped-dry 

across my tuxedo jacket

as I walked into the school.

shhhhh, it happens, 

I told them…

it’s the only advice I can give.

But that was then.

Today is Sunday

& I’m done playing

ring around the toilet bowl 

with a bristled baton - 

the lawn is already mowed.

Karal’s friend spent the night -

a wedding - and the mother- 

of-the-bride needed a dog-sitter,

so I volunteered my home.

They’ve both been fed.

Glamis died unexpectedly in April.

Her stomach was full of puss & blood.

Good dog,

habitual at doing business

on morning and evening walks

so I could become a pro at sanitizing 

the neighborhood 

with plastic bags

and tossing 3-pointers 

in the green, town-sponsored canisters 

I memorized for deposit.

And I’ll be 50 soon.

I’ve been told about the aliens

coming my way to probe my health,

but I’ve spent a life

pondering colons,

semi-colons, and ellipses…

…all the while singing,

I’m halfway there 

with Bon Jovi…

It happens…shhhh. I know.

Karal’s her own dog, though,

prissy & vocally self-conscious.

She thinks she’s on special duty 

and not meant for public business.

She leaves her droppings

across the backyard 

as if it’s a cookie tray.

My sneakers know this well, 

as do flies, grubs, and gnats…

it’s part of Sunday’s plumbing; 

my day for reflecting on empty nests, 

& umbilical chords cut like the grass.

Shhh. It happens.

People, I'm Fried. But I Am Participating in #EthicalELA's Open-Write September. So, A Poem or Two Have Birthed Themselves Into Existence.

Phew. Wedding weekend. Conference proposal uploaded. Lawn mowed. But I'm done. And It's Monday again, ugh. Anyway, here's a poem from Saturday - a memory poem, in which I tried to channel my first dog, Dusty. This is part of EthicalELA's weekend prompts...this one, written between church vows and reception while letting Jake out and having nothing else to do in a suit and tie....all dressed up and no place to go...for a couple of hours, that is.

Dusty

the first of many best friends

On the bottom of the stairs

he tried lifting a body

with one leg working,

wanting to greet us,

with afternoon licks 

he offered as snacks - 

the perfect hello for school buses

before watching Gilligan’s Island.

I smell his puppy-breath

and the linoleum floor of Clarks Mills, 

where we’d curl beside him,

holding his tiny paws in our hands…

the night we brought him home,

we slept in the kitchen .

At the lake, he’d chase 

boats because they were rabbits - 

he’d spring along the shoreline,

running in the wake of skiers

and waves, until he wore the padding

of his paws into cotton candy.

In summer,

we’d played Jaws

on the 2nd floor 

with our mom’s green afghan 

as a fishing net,

entangling fingers through crochet - 

knowing tail & teeth

could get us

as we hummed

theme music 

from our parent’s bed.

They told me it was lipstick,

his red excitement

that curled forward

between his legs

as we rode 

the station wagon.

I’d watch my mother 

apply her own

in the mirror,

wiping stains

from her teeth,

always bewildered by

sex

& all I 

had to learn.

When dad said it was time,

I was the one who 

stood at his side,

offering him strength.

My sisters pleaded.

My mother cried,

And I looked at

my father with awe,

admiring what

it takes 

to end

the suffering.

Congratulations to Kaitlyn and Dominik...Married on September 18, 2021...a Beautiful Wedding

Saturday was an exquisite wedding to celebrate the ceremony of Kaitlyn and George Glass Dominik Trzepacz in both Derby and Monroe, Connecticut. Kaitlyn is a bashful soul, not wanting any attention given to her, but she was a stunning bride, deserving of the ceremony, attention, and festivities. The two of them were absolutely beautiful throughout it all. For several months they have planned, organized, plotted, and united on the event to bring families together and to provide all with love, food, unification, and joy. It was an event for a lifetime. 

Jake and Karal graced Mount Pleasant for the day, and they were in good graces when I checked on them between the church and the reception, even with the guilty stares when I left to return. The day was a break in their usual routines, but both were on their best behaviors. 

I retired early from the event early, however, exhausted from the week and non-stop responsibilities, even as I knew the evening was just getting started. Family members filled the dance floor ready for polka, a wedding fiesta, and celebratory triumph of the day....a beautiful couple with wonderful families. I knew I wasn't going to be able to dance, so slipped out while I could.

When I got home, I took the dogs for a 10 p.m. walk and gave them  treats to award them for being great while left alone all day. Jake was a little confused, as he thought I was going to return him to his mayoral duties on Walnut Beach, but mommy needed to have an evening as the mother-of-the-bride with friends, family, and new acquaintances. 

St. Michael's Church in Derby is stunning - one of the most beautiful churches I've ever been inside. The art work and storytelling was everywhere, alluding to a religious history that is foreign to me. 

I'm thrilled that the two, Dominik and Kaitlyn, found one another and that the joining of named and rings was such a tremendous occasion.

Here's to both. I wish them nothing but the best. This is for the two of them (all apologies if I messed up the Latin and Polish languages)

Ah, Charlotte. I Really Do Wish I Was Some Pig. But I Am Just An Idiot Upon The Stage Until I'm Heard No More

Phew. Friday. 

Phonetically frolicking with words like 'flatulence,' 'f@ck,' 'fudge-nuggets,' and 'farts.' That sums it all up, actually. Meetings galore from sunrise until dinner-time, and thankful that Dave said, "I'm grilling burgers for Kris and the boys. Come over," because I could make waffle fries, and I had a quart of Orange Ice for Ishy from Micallizzi's. I've been keeping it in my fridge.

Today is the BIG day. Kaitlyn is marrying Dominik, Jake is staying with Karal (uh oh), and I need to buy something to wear (which is unlikely to happen). Ugh.

But we sat last night after dinner watching a beautiful spider; I'm pretty sure it was a Cross-Orb Weaver. The stunning creature build its intricate web within minutes. I noticed the line from the house to the outdoor umbrella, but figured it was an old line. Yet, soon we all spotted the lady doing her thing. We sat there, mesmerized, and watched the entire thing as it was created. It was beautifully mathematical and fantastic. All of us stared in awe,  knowing such webs are temporary - a hope of catching food for a little while for the night. Then, poof! Gone. 

Ah, but today is Saturday: sunshine, singing, celebrations, and simplicity. Got to get going early and needing Sunday to recover, especially with the work this semester. 

More to come tomorrow. 

For now, Carpe Diem.

Because Sometimes I Wake Up With Brilliant Premonitions & Ideas, I Share Them Here. We Need to Seance Anna Nicole Smith

Let's just say that years blur. 

All I know is that I had a student: quiet, shy, brilliant, and secretly hilarious young woman, who was obsessed with Anna Nicole Smith. It wasn't, like, fanatically-obsessed, but she held an attraction that was comedic, captivating, and always crisp. Whenever anything was in doubt in my English class, the student would say, "We need to consult with the Anna Nicole Smith show to help us figure out a solution for our problems." 

She never missed an episode of the show.

Now I have to tap memory-lane here, because it's been a long time, and a lot of life, since the Anna Nicole Smith Show was on E!. I don't even know if E! exists anymore, but I do know that while I lived in Kentucky, any time I stopped on E! I was hooked by trashy television I didn't want to watch, but that lured me in nonetheless. That's how I learned of Anna Nicole Smith. She lived a fascinating life, including a short marriage with a man from the blue grass state. She modeled for a bit and seemed to have a thing for old guys on their death bed, too. She may or may not have been an addict. That is still debated. I think she's a natural blonde, but I'm not 100% sure about that. I'd have to do more research.

Leah could channel Anna Nicole Smith like no other, and although hesitant to contribute to class conversations, she could quote the Anna Nicole Smith show to bring wisdom to my room no matter what we were discussing: Plato's Allegory of the Cave, there was an episode of Anna. Want to teach Euripides...well, Anna could write a Greek Tragedy. Lady Macbeth? Please. Did you see Anna's humping miniature poodle?

I know all of us have lived a foreboding year, but when I woke up this morning, I immediately thought, "My God. I need to locate Leah. We need to do a seance and bring Anna Nicole Smith back from the dead. WWAD - What would Anna do? She always had solutions that made us all think very deeply about the universe. She was a sage ahead of her time. She could fix today's woes!"

Then I found Ndalia Bagratoni's Ode to the celebrity, worth sharing here:

Oh, Anna Nicole Smith, 
Please oh, oh Please 
Do not read this! 

What has happened to the concept, 
That the media has exploited you, 
Forget the simple fact that your fans adore you, 
Have you bothered to look into a mirror, 
And if you did what would you see? 

Seldom has a celebrity, 
Crashed and burned as you have done. 

Normally if that has happened E would run 
It on True Hollywood Stories. 
Now, unless I lost my TV Guide, 
You are on your own comedy. 

The tragic problem is that we are laughing at you, 
Does this hurt? 

Do you feel it inside. 
IF you do, 
And you must, 
Please do us a favor, 
Take a vacation, 
Learn to drive, 
Get a life, 
But most all, 
Get off TV before the fall. 

The new season opened, 
And so far is a ratings war, 
E wanted a winner and came up with just another big bust!

Nothing like beautiful poetry to idolize an icon.

So, yesterday, I located friends on Facebook and began to search for Leah. In the process I also learned of this wonderful poem by Natalia Bagratun. Then I found out that the wonderful Margaret Cho, comedian and deliverer of incredible tribute songs, made this video about Anna Nicole Smith - her Candle in the Wind salute to an angel taken way too soon. I am now wondering if we were to have a resurrection party, if I could get Leah, Margaret, and Natalia in the same room for a meeting. The spirit is very needed these days.

I personally think she'd help us to find a way out of this past year. If anyone could do it, it would be her. Life seemed so much simpler when she was gracing the air with her beauty and brilliance. I wish I could go back in time to have Leah enter room 301 to share the latest knowledge-nugget gained from the show.

Phew. We could all Anna Nicole Smith right now. 

Or maybe, she was the Cassandra of yesteryear warning us where we'd be today. 

Throwing Myself a Bone as a Result of Late Night Classes - Well, Using Puppy-Love (at least) To Teach Content Literacy

It's hard to motivate one's self for evening teaching, especially when one's been at the job since 7 a.m., but by afternoon, I showered, put on new shoes I bought in case we were ever in-person again, and packed my bags to head to campus. Karal has a shoelace fetish so I assumed she'd love the boots with their long blue laces (and she did). Caught her licking her chops as I was packing my things.

I also spent a night preparing content-area teachers to read Clap When You Land, a two-perspective story about daughters who never realized they had a sister in another nation (dad's secret). Told with the backdrop of 9/11, and the flight to the Dominican Republic that crashed a few weeks later (no terrorism detected), Elizabeth Acevedo establishes two worlds, two types of girls, two ambitions, and two possibilities when everyone learns that dad lived two lives (even if his flight went down). It's poetically brilliant because, well, it's Acevedo.

I also was able to tap Jennifer Dail's Stella, the blind dog she adopted as a foster mom, and used her video once again to teach coaching, mentoring, monitoring, and teaching. I explained to the kids, "Well, they may come to you hating your subject, blind to the content, and oblivious to what you need them to do. BUT you must guide them. Teach them. They won't see it the way you do, but the best teachers coach them along...help them to figure it out."

I am waking up this morning scared of my calendar. I know I have afternoon meetings and I'm hoping for some down time to think after I sip this coffee. Getting home at 10 p.m. does a number on my  brain, body, and soul, and I enter my home use wanting to flop on the bed, eat dinner, process the day, think about tomorrow, and play with the dog (she's hyper). Ah, but you can't do everything and I simply get dizzy trying to figure out how best to be before going to the pillow...

...but the brain doesn't shut off because it's been going full speed for hours...

It's all good. Thursday and Friday are loaded, but Saturday is Kaitlyn and Dominik's wedding, so I have no excuse but to take a break. I will need Sunday and Monday to catch up, though, after losing time to have fun. 

And, Chardonay? Who brought Chardonay into this house? I poured myself a glass. YUCK. Dumping that down the drain was easy. I thought it'd be a good nightcap after a long day. It's like sipping vinegar through a celery stick...two flavors I hate. At least I can say I tried.

Okay. Back to work. Go Go Go.