Release the Endorphins!

I was unprepared this morning when at least three of the new sixth graders answered "nothing" when asked what they liked best about middle school so far. I tried to take it in stride as I read their replies, offering what I hoped was the right balance between genuine concern, a gentle push to dig a little deeper, and the knowledge that everyone will have plenty of opportunities to give more positive responses as the year goes on. 

Later in the class, which was our first block schedule of the year, I introduced the brain break procedures: Each activity is designed to take about 3-4 minutes, no one is required to participate, but anyone who does can pick a piece of candy once they are settled and back to work. 

Well. 

They were all in for that! 

And a little while after, when I was walking around, checking in on their writing and handing out the sweets, one student was positively beaming. "This is officially my favorite class and you are my favorite teacher," she gushed.

"See what a little brain break and a Jolly Rancher can do?" I agreed. "Maybe now you can go back and change that Nothing answer."

Fair Weather Fans

I knew it was a risk when I booked the game. 

The second day of school was Hawaiian shirt night at Nats Park, and what with Heidi and I being newly minted fans, despite the terrible season our team is having, I really, really wanted us to go. I even switched our seats to the first row in the second tier on the right field line, Homer Alley if you ask some. And I had visions of us in our cool new shirts snagging fly balls all night, so I dug out my glove to bring to the park. 

But then this afternoon it started to rain, and the day grew late, and I knew the traffic on 395 would be bad, and that Wednesday morning, the day when we would be setting up iPads and going over block schedule, would come awfully early. 

Oh, I wished the game would be rained out, so that the choice would be taken out of our hands, but it wasn't, and it wasn't. 

So we called it ourselves, and headed home in the muggy evening, instead of to the ball park. 

Court Orders

It was ninety degrees at 2 PM yesterday when we set out to meet some friends at the tennis courts near their home. I was sure it was going to be too hot, but the courts were partially shaded, and the sun went in and out of the big puffy cumulous clouds, and there was a bit of a breeze, too. 

We were there to participate in what one of our friends called Pickle Smash 2022, but was in reality the first time most of us had ever taken the court to play America's fastest growing sport, PICKLEBALL! And friends, it did not disappoint. 

The game is sort of like giant ping pong, with players standing on the table. The court is small, so the game is accessible to players of many fitness and skill levels.The rules are kind of a mash up between table tennis and racquetball: games are played to eleven, you have to win by 2 points, the service must alternate courts, and you can only score points on your serve. The ball is not super bouncy, though, in that respect it's a bit like squash.

The six of us played several games of doubles, with the off team taking care of our friends' baby. The heat was not a factor, and it was win-win-win, even when we lost. 

I can't wait to play some more!

Pleasure Without Purpose

Are you even fun?

The headline on the NYTimes website caught my attention immediately. A quick click took me to a quiz and an accompanying article. I took the quiz first, because, well, it seemed like more fun.

It billed itself as "mostly unscientific" and it was. The first question was, Have you ever ordered a party sub? and the subsequent questions were equally rando. It was always obvious which of the two answers was the more "fun" one, but I found myself strangely compelled to reply honestly, even the one that asked if I ever found myself just hanging with the girls, aka, my plants. 

"Yes! They love me!" I clicked without hesitation.

Twenty questions later, I got my results:

CONGRATULATIONS! YOUR FUN VIBE IS: Low-key!*  

 

Gardening, reading a good book or quietly people watching is your kind of fun. You’ve been known to say, “We don't need to drink to have a good time.” 

*Fun categories extremely unscientific but derived from consultation with actual researchers

I'd have to say that unscientific though it might be?  It sure pegged me.

Hello, Saturday

When you are off for an extended period of time, like, say the whole summer, Saturday is no longer a special day of the week. In fact, Saturday becomes a day to stay home and avoid the crowds in the stores, theaters, museums, pools, gardens, and so forth. All those people cramming their leisure and errands into 12 hours or so can really jam your vibe. 

That was definitely me a couple of weeks ago, but with school starting Monday, I find that my attitude has completely reverted to that workaday spirit. This morning I got up and made waffles, dropped Heidi at a friend's for brunch, filled the car with gas, got my hair cut, went to Home Depot for garden supplies and toilet repair parts, shopped at the Mediterranean grocer for some specialty pantry items, went by Total Wine to restock my beer, took the dog for a walk, fixed the toilet, went grocery shopping, babysat our neighbor's six-month old little girl, and made chicken soup. 

That's almost more than I did all summer, when the day's accomplishments usually consisted of doing the wordle and crossword puzzle. (Which, for the record? I also did today.)

A Shift and a Shed

One of my priorities when I started teaching was to build a big classroom library full of books that my students would want to read. To that end, I have spent hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars acquiring books that I knew kids liked, and over the last 29 years I have assembled a library that fills six bookcases. 

That's a lot books, and it is despite the fact that I have lost many to careless and unscrupulous borrowers. In fact, any used book sale within 5 miles usually has one or more volumes stamped with my name and a plea to return it. And just this week, several teachers cleaning out new rooms have brought me books that the previous occupants had on their shelves, despite the clear labeling.

But when, upon returning to my classroom after summer break, I unwrapped my neatly papered cases, I found a note that I had left myself back in June. Go through these bookshelves! it advised me, as well as to Have a good SY 2022-23! At my age, I have come to embrace writing myself reminders, especially prompts for the middling future. To be completely honest, I had no recollection of writing that note; I just recognized my own handwriting and knew that it was good advice.

Even so, my bookcases remained a bit of a jumbled mess for the entire first week that I was back to school. It was only today, with many other must-do tasks looming, that I began work on the shelves, slowly at first. As I sorted through the volumes one at a time, I noticed a few things. First, there were the multiple copies of books that were wildly popular in their day, but then flamed out, supernova-style. There were also books that were ragged and repaired with packing tape and sharpie. And finally, there were many books that were obsolete, their plots either too dated to ever become classics or too offensive by contemporary standards for me to conscionably to keep.

So I grabbed an empty box, took a deep breath, and for the first time in 29 years started paring my library instead of adding to it. As I worked, depositing box after box of discarded paperbacks outside my door, colleagues came by to express their alarm and concern. "Are you actually throwing books away?" asked one, and when she put it like that, my stomach did a little twist.

I read years ago about a trick to clean out your closet. The advice was to turn all your hangers so that the hooks are facing inward. Whenever you wear something, replace it and its hanger the usual way. After a certain amount of time, months, a year, whatever, you will be able to see what you have worn, and what you have never touched. If you haven't worn it in that time, then you should get rid of it.

For me, the problem with that method is the worry that I might really need or want that particular garment sometime, and then I would regret letting it go. The same was true for certain books today. I knew they hadn't been read in many years, but I had to decide if they would ever be in demand or appreciated again. 

A movie novelization of Little Women published in 1994 really drove the dilemma home for me. There was Winona Rider, as the character of Jo March, right on the cover. I got Little Women for Christmas the year I was in sixth grade, and I absolutely loved it. Plus, kids today might appreciate reading a book with Joyce Byers from Stranger Things, right? 

No! 

It wasn't even the actual novel.

I tossed it, but the struggle? Was real.

Ready, Set, Go

Today was our annual open house for students and their families. Always held on the Thursday before school starts, the event is usually very well attended by sixth graders, who are new to the school. In recent years, we have opened it up to all students, which especially made a lot sense last year, when many 7th and 8th grade students had either been away from the building since March of 2020, or never even been here at all.

For me, this was my 30th open house; 29 in person and one virtually. The format has varied over the years. For a very long time, we held ours in the evening to accommodate working families, but that changed about 10 years ago. Since then, the hours have shifted from late afternoon, to midday, to morning, which it was today. 

At nine a.m. all homeroom teachers poured out the building holding signs with their names aloft. After that, it was on the kids and their folks to match the name with the one they got on their welcome letter. Over the next 15 minutes or so, 11 of the 16 students assigned to my advisory found their way over, and we headed into the building while their parents attended an orientation in the theater.

I must confess that I am always nervous to meet the new students. Despite years of experience to the contrary, I dread the possibility of some unpleasantness. It's almost like that dream where you realize you have a test that you're not ready for, but in reverse. Every year I realize again that I'm totally ready.

After a fun 45 minute get-to-know-you session, it was time to say good-bye until Monday. "Enjoy your last few days of summer!" I said. "You're kind of lucky, you know. My summer ended last week."

"It did?" asked someone in alarm.

"Yes," I nodded, "teachers have been working since last Thursday." Then I shrugged. "But it all kind of seems worth it, now that you guys are here!"

Wistful Wisdom

Earlier this summer I was brought to tears listening to the recording of Joni Mitchell singing at the Newport Jazz Festival. It had been nearly 20 years since her last public performance, during which time she suffered and recovered from a devastating brain aneurism, and it had been over 50 years since Mitchell, now 78, had performed at the festival which had played a big hand in boosting her career. Knowing all that made her rendition of "Both Sides Now" so poignant, that I cried as I listened.

In the same set, she sang another of her classic hits, "The Circle Game", which is also a meditation on time and life. I thought of that song today when the text book rep was giving us an overview of some of the features of the newly adopted program. "Here you can see the cards for each of the units," she pointed. "We call this the carousel."

I nodded and clicked obediently, aware that my preference for the materials and methods I would use to teach my students the mandated content was irrelevant. The units that I and my colleagues had so carefully crafted were destined to be replaced by this bland, bullet-proof resource designed to teach to the test and avoid offending anyone. So I made a note to set aside some time to properly mourn, and then I kept on clicking.

And the seasons, they go round and round 

And the painted ponies go up and down 

We're captive on the carousel of time 

We can't return, we can only look 

Behind, from where we came 

And go round and round and round, 

in the circle game

 

Every Little Thing

In case you were wondering, that was me and my CLT today, three little teachers on a quest to acquire inexpensive composition books for their students, taking Staples by storm. 

The price was right-- 50 cents, but the limit of 30 was problematic. We needed 150! Fortunately, the cashier was cooperative when he learned we were teachers,  ringing one notebook @ 30 copies for five separate transactions.  

"Are there really 150 there?" he asked halfway through.

"Well, technically it's only 149, because that one." I pointed to the one on the belt.

"I have to look like I counted," he said with a bit of concern, "for the camera. I don't want any trouble."

He came out from his station and ran his finger up and down the stacks in our cart, moving his lips. Then he gave a curt nod and returned to the register. A few minutes later we were rolling out the door and loading up the back of the station wagon. Mission accomplished.

May this field trip be a harbinger of the year to come-- where tasks are met together, obstacles easily overcome, and appearances maintained for any who care to review the tape.

Prana

My yoga teacher advises us frequently to be mindful of our prana. It's not just your breath, she reminds us, it's anything you take in to your body. She's right of course. Watching what you eat and drink can have an obvious effect on health and well-being, but the other things we consume? Their impact may not be quite so pronounced.

Take media, for example. Half a century ago society was concerned that the boob tube was making our children into catatonic idiots. These days our focus is, rightfully, on social media and disinformation. And anyone who has had a nightmare after seeing a scary movie knows the potential disruption such fabrications can cause. It is wise to be conscious of what you consume.

I understood this concept even before I started practicing yoga. In 2017, I stopped setting my alarm to news radio. Where for 30 years before I started my day with a couple of hours of current events, I opted for silence, choosing to curate my news consumption a bit more closely by reading online papers and listening to features on demand. I just couldn't take the coverage of the present political state of affairs.

That's why I should have known better than to listen to an entire podcast about the Jonestown Massacre. Although considering the dangers of a charismatic leader is not a bad idea, hearing the details of the situation that led to the deaths of over 900 people was not a good idea, especially since I wrapped it up right before I couldn't go to sleep.

And when I did doze off, visions of restrictive communities danced in my head all night long, leaving me groggy and unrested this morning. And when I set my intention for the day? You can bet it was to clear my mind.

Unpunished No More

The car was sluggish to start when I ran to the store yesterday, but I thought little of it when I cut the ignition and ran my errands. But my heart beat a little harder in my chest when it did not turn over right away after my first stop. And then, when the back lift gate wouldn't open after my final stop, I was pretty worried, but, like a trooper, that Subaru engine roared to life after a click and a grind. There was beeping from the rear hatch all the short way home, and I knew that there was something to attend to, despite the lack of battery warning light on my dash.

I remembered how, late last Tuesday night, when we returned to the parking lot after the ball game, a couple of young men flagged us down. Their Subaru battery was dead, and they wondered if we would be so kind as to let them jump it. I willingly pulled over, and in just a few minutes, their car was running. "I'm glad we could help," I said when they thanked us.

"You know what's weird?" one of them told us as he coiled up the jumper cables. "The last time we were here there were some people in a Subaru and their battery was dead. We helped them then, and now we need it."

"I hope you're not paying that forward!" I laughed, and we were on our way.

Well...

They were.

All the Gadgets

We are having neighbors over for dinner and game night, and the occasion has offered the opportunity for me to use lots of my cooking toys. 

The main dish is pulled pork, but I sous-vided the dry-rubbed boneless butt for 24 hours, cooled it in the bag, crisped the outside in ta low oven for 3 hours oven, pulled the roast into tender chunks, and then used my new smoking gun to infuse the meat with hickory. I also used the insta-pot to cook up some of those Maine beans, and they are now simmering in ranchero sauce I made with Hatch peppers from my garden that I dehydrated. On the side is homemade sourdough sandwich bread baked in my lidded Pullman pan in the cast iron cloche I got for my birthday, as well as some pickled cabbage I fermented myself.

I think our guests will enjoy the food, but probably not quite as much as I enjoyed cooking it!

Painted Ponies

My first year of teaching coincided with a textbook adoption for English, and so one day during the pre-service week a custodian delivered several heavy boxes of books to my room.  Held within the light blue covers, was a reading book much like the ones I had had 20 years earlier when I was in sixth grade. And although there was something in me that wanted to just open that teacher edition and read the script like my teachers had always done, I was a student of "whole language" and believed with all my professional heart that students learned by immersion and engagement in authentic reading and writing experiences. It was my role to provide such situations and coach each student as she or he uncovered the meaning in the transaction between themselves and the text.

To be honest? Despite the edu-jargon, I still think learning works mostly in that way. A teacher can give lots of information and support, both directly and on demand, but the students make their own meaning. And there are many ways to guide them to that understanding, which I know from 29 years in the biz. And that cliche that education is cyclical? 

Well, friends, a custodian is scheduled to deliver several heavy boxes to my classroom next week.

(Two days down, 198 to go!)

Holding Out

 Our last meeting had ended and I was ready to bust out of school. "Let's go!" I said to Heidi around 2:45. "We can pretend it's still summer!"

Oh, we didn't leave right away. Even after our stuff was packed, there were so many friends and colleagues still to catch up with, but we did push open the heavy doors and step into the unbelievably beautiful August afternoon a little before 4. 

On the way out we ran into another teacher. "One is done!" he sang.

"Only a hundred and ninety-nine more to go!" I agreed.

And once we were home, we changed our clothes and walked the dog up to a nearby shopping center. I got groceries while Heidi and Lucy browsed in the craft store. Then we lugged a couple of heavy bags the mile back home. I put a dry rub on the pork butt and set up the sous vide. Our neighbors are coming over for game night on Saturday, and the recipe called for 24 hours in a 165 degree water bath.

I also stuffed a dozen squash blossoms that I picked the other day. By that time, I was slowing down a bit. Even though I wanted to ignore it, the truth was that we had spent 8 hours at school. We did get a little summer in, but? Vacation is definitely over.

Put Me in, Coach

We spent the second to last night of our summer vacation in the ballpark with friends. Sure, our home team has the worst record in baseball, but there are bright spots in this "rebuilding" year. Heidi loves the catcher, Keibert Ruiz, and I hear that there is some serious talent on the farm teams. Go Nats 2024!

As bad as they might be, the team gave the Cubs a run for their money last night. They got some hits and some homers, tied the game up three times and went eleven innings before completely collapsing. And the company was great! Our friends Mary and Matt joined us for the game, and we spent 4 hours chatting and cheering and playing ballpark games. 

In the early innings, Matt suggested a silly game based on the mugshot appearance on the jumbotron of the players at bat. "What are they being booked for?" he laughed. "Best answer wins!"

But the middle school teacher in all of us, plus the fact that most of the players looked like they could have been our students not too long ago, quickly shifted the game. "It's a yearbook photo," I noted. "What were their activities?"

Of course all the guys with soulful eyes loved English and published their poetry in the literary magazine. A couple of the guys were obviously in the AV club, some helped out in the library after school, others were on the announcements or in the play. One was a tennis star at the country club until someone put a Louisville Slugger in his hands.

Oh, we recognized a few their smirks, of course, and knew that some might need a little extra encouragement or support to find their way, but in the end? They were all good boys.

I think we might be ready to get back in the classroom.

Another Year

Today was likely my last solitary morning in the garden for the summer. Even though it has been a disappointing growing season this year, it was with gratitude that I locked the gate behind me and set off for home with at least 10 pounds of tomatoes, peppers, okra, and squash blossoms. There will be plenty more, too, which I will dash in to pick after school or on a weekend afternoon, but for all practical purposes, my gardening is done for now.

I'll miss getting up, pulling on shorts and a tank top, making some coffee, and heading up that big hill to spend a couple hours weeding, watering,  and tending to the vegetables before the sun got too hot. Those mornings epitomize a slower, summer pace of life that is about to flip a switch. And although shepherding a hundred sixth graders through their education has its own appeals, I know there will be days when I dream of my garden.

A Verdict

 The Kennebunkport Beans were...

OK

First, I have never cooked with salt pork before, and it turns out there is a bit of a learning curve. The recipe called for a 3 x 5 inch piece, which I found excessive, so I cut that amount in three. I also cut up the salt pork, and it was only later that I realized I was supposed to just throw the whole index card sized piece into the bean pot, presumably to retrieve it later. Second, salt pork, soy sauce, AND olives? You can only imagine how salty those beans were. And finally, the flavors of lard and beef and beans did not really meld with the olives and soy sauce. 

The whole recipe seemed like a contrivance of late 60s, early 70s culinary fads, which is confusing, given the cook book of their provenance. A little more research into the history of the dish and that recipe definitely seems in order.

But, they definitely were not disgusting. Although I may never make them again, they were perfectly edible. And not only am I glad that I took the time to recreate the dish, I am looking forward to telling my Aunt Harriett all about it. I have some questions for her, too. Among them, Where did she get the recipe? What did she like about it? Why did she make it so often? I'm hoping her answers will open that window on the past just a little wider.

Even though Kennebunkport Beans will never become a regular in my kitchen rotation, I feel sure that they still have a lot more to give.

Bean There

I was sorting through a folder of recipes the other day when I came across a photocopy of a page in my Aunt Harriett's handwriting. The recipe was for Kennebunkport Beans. There were many things we loved about staying with Aunt Harriett, but those beans were a bane of any visit to her house when we were kids. 

Looking at the recipe, I could see what we objected to. I remembered the olives as an ingredient we found strange and disgusting, but the dish itself, with its salt pork, cubed beef, celery salt, and cheese is not very kid-friendly at all. Still, I was intrigued, and since we have been eating a lot of beans lately anyway, I added the ingredients to my shopping list. 

When we were kids, we never associated Kennebunkport with anything other than those awful beans. It took me many years of, first hearing about the Bush summer home in Maine, and then literally driving past the town for a dozen trips or more to Acadia National Park, to make the connection between one of my favorite states, Maine, with one of my least favorite childhood memories. 

At the end of our week up there this summer, my sister-in-law, Emily, and I stopped at a grocery store we hadn't been to yet, despite spending at least a hundred dollars a day to feed our party of eleven. On the bottom of one of the shelves in this small market where most of our fellow shoppers were neither tourists, nor wealthy summer residents, but rather real locals, Emily found an assortment of 2 pound ziplocks full of dried beans. "These look really good," she said. "Want to get them and split them to take home?" 

"Sure," I said, and examining the bags I saw that they were labeled Soldier Beans and Jacob's Cattle Beans. I had never heard of either, but they turned out to be heirloom varieties that have been grown in Maine for centuries. 

My research on beans, soldier, cattle, and Kennebunkport, turned up references to a vintage cook book, Good Maine Food. First published in 1947 by Maine author Kenneth Roberts' niece and secretary, Marjorie Mosser, the story goes that when Roberts published an article in The Saturday Evening Post about some of his favorite boyhood dishes, he began to receive hundreds of letters, many from fellow Mainers, about their favorite foods. Intrigued, Marjorie embarked on a writing project of her own. The final product, which intersperses Roberts’ comments and anecdotes with recipes and other how-tos has been described as "not just a cook book, it's a way of life. It tells you everything about cooking, working, farming, and hunting, in Maine," and "a must-own collection for any cook." Of course I ordered my used copy right away, since despite what those critics say, it is currently out of print.

Even though my cook book hasn’t been delivered yet, I was able to catch a glimpse of the recipe for Kennebunkport Beans on Google Books, and it is definitely the source my aunt was working from, although, like a game of telephone, recipes change a bit as they are shared from person to person. There is a bit of commentary in the book about what kind of beans to use. Neatly sidestepping a local controversy concerning proper bean usage, Mosser mentions soldier beans and yellow-eyed beans by name, but also gives permission for her readers to use any variety of bean they like.

It's soldier beans for me.

Good Deed Bad Deed

The pandemic has forced our dog walker to change her business model to make ends meet. In addition to walks, potty breaks, and trips to the dog park, she has added doggie day care and boarding to her services. At any given time, she might have between two and seven dogs at her house, including her own pair of mini-Aussies. She also is a SCUBA instructor and dive master, and occasionally her work in that field has her away for the weekend. Those times, she gets a friend or neighbor to look after whatever dogs she has, because she needs the money from both jobs.

Sometimes in the past year or so, when she has been in a bind, she has asked Heidi and me to stop by on a Saturday morning or afternoon and let the dogs out in her yard for some exercise and relief. I'm usually happy to help, although the dogs are often a little wild and anxious. As disconcerting as those circumstances can be to me, it bothers Heidi even more; she hates to see the dogs unhappy.

This weekend, it seems that all the other dog help fell through, and we were asked to let the dogs out a few times today and tomorrow, and feed them tonight. Making the job even harder was the fact that there were eleven (yes! ELEVEN) dogs staying at the house. We needed photos, descriptions, and feeding instructions to be able to care for them all.

We reluctantly agreed to help out, but today has been a very stressful day. Oh, Leo, Theo, Dory, Daisy, Brooklyn, Becket, Blue, Grady, Laika, Isla, and Harper are perfectly nice, but the guest dogs are away from their homes and families and their anxiety at being in an unfamiliar place ramps up with their excitement whenever we arrive. It's chaos, and as much as we want to be helpful and supportive, this situation doesn't fell right for us or the dogs.

Potato Potahto

We had just parked our car on the National Mall and were headed over to check out a couple of exhibits we had been talking about seeing all summer when a late model economy sedan rolled to a stop. The window slid down and a couple of about my age peered anxiously out. "Do you know where the parliament is?" the driver asked me in a thick accent.

I blinked. "The parliament?" I repeated.

"Yes! You know-- elections, Democrats, Republicans?" he elaborated.

"Oh!" I replied. "The Capitol?"

"Yes!" he nodded.

"Keep going straight," I gestured up Jefferson Drive. "You'll see it."

"How did you know what he meant?" Heidi asked.

"What else could it have been?" I shrugged. "He had the right idea."

Of Apples, Early Birds, and Worms

It's hard to believe that at this time next week, we will have completed our first day back at school. Teachers report next Thursday, even though the first day for students is not until a week from the following Monday. 

29 years ago, when I first started teaching, our preservice week was just that: we started the Monday before Labor Day and the kids came the Tuesday after that holiday. We weren't required to work on Friday of that weekend, either, but I usually did. Back then there never seemed like quite enough time to get ready, but maybe that was just me feeling unprepared.

Now, I can't decide if I think making us come back on Thursday and Friday is an act of kindness, or an act of unnecessary authority. Sure, there's plenty to accomplish in those seven work days before instruction begins, but there's also a lot of time to get it all done. Add to that an earlier opening date for students, for the past couple years, they have started the Monday before Labor Day, and it just kind of seems like my summer has been short-changed. 

But as early as August 18 seems to me, our first day is probably only going to get earlier for the next few years. We are scheduled to begin 18 days before Labor Day. This year, the holiday is September 5, but in 2025? If the pattern holds, they'll be calling teachers back on August 14!

I may just have to be enjoying my retirement by then.

The One Where I Try Not to Be a Wimp

I participated in another poetry workshop this afternoon. 

Even though it was offered free to anyone who heard about it, there were only 5 other people beside the poet and the coordinator from the museum. For me, that meant nowhere to hide. They asked us to keep our cameras on, and we were strongly encouraged to share our ideas and our writing, a situation I found very stressful. 

Of course I used my discomfort to empathize with my students when they are in a similar situation, especially one of my conception. I also used it to ask myself what the big deal was. I didn't know any of these folks, and they were super nice and very supportive. There were some amazing contributions from my fellow participants, and I learned a lot in an hour. 

Listening to the poetry they composed in 10 minutes humbled me, and it was constructive not to be the most accomplished writer in the room, an experience I usually only have when my writing group meets. (Since I spend most of my writing time with sixth graders and all!) 

There are still 2 more sessions, both on ekphrastic poetry inspired by the Reckoning: Protest. Defiance. Resilience exhibit at the National Museum of African American History and Culture, and I think I might be brave enough to do them both.

Gladiator 2.0

Back in the mid-90s, when almost all internet access was dial-up, I was invited by AOL to be a Beta tester.  I'm not sure why I was selected, but I gleefully embraced my job, which really just entailed downloading the test software, occasionally answering short surveys, and, in an age when you paid by the hour, more online time than I could ever use. 

I thought about those days this evening, when the NYTimes notified me that I needed to update my beta version of their audio app, which I was also selected to pilot. I'm not sure if I am the ideal candidate for this job; their content has substantial competition from my other audio feeds, a combination of podcasts, audio books, and NPR, but I must say that I am impressed and enjoy whenever I listen to one of their productions. Many are feature articles recorded by the reporter, and they combine solid journalism with excellent writing and an authentic voice. Nothing to complain about, there.

Last week I listened to a trilogy of articles about the history, culture, and puffins (!) of Iceland, which made me feel closer to my nephew who is living there for a few years, and tonight I heard a story about the doctors who sit ringside during mixed martial arts competitions. Like the Iceland pieces, I chose this one because of personal connection. One of my former students, both homeroom and English, is a rising star in MMA.

It just so happens that one of our assistant principals is a former marine and devotee of the sport, and it was he that shared Sam's Instagram account with me. After a bit of hesitation, I followed him, and I was happy when he acknowledged my support. Most of his posts are training and weigh-ins, but there is definitely footage from his fights.

In the Times piece, they focused on the ethical dilemma of physicians who participate in a sport where the object is to harm your opponent. Some doctors wonder if their presence legitimizes actions which contradict the oath they take to do no harm, but others rationalize their role. "We're like pulmonologists who treat smokers," says one. "We don't condone smoking, but people have free will."

I wondered, on a much smaller scale, about my own culpability in supporting Sam. I remember responding to an email from his mother when he was in sixth grade about his irritability and lack of focus. She told me then it was because he wasn't eating so that he could cut weight to make his wrestling class. "Oh no!" I wrote, "We don't encourage that in middle school competition." But I was wrong. I found out later that the wrestling coaches did tell their athletes to skip meals before competition days. 

It was clear then that the sport was counterproductive, if not harmful, to Sam. I can't say what his situation is now: he's very successful, but according to the article, unless they suffer a career ending injury, most MMA fighters suffer traumatic brain injury later in life. That's not surprising, given that the object of the competition is to physically disable your opponent. Of course the athletes are playing the odds, testing the system, sure that they will be the exception who comes out on top and unscathed.

Our society is forever evolving. I left AOL behind decades ago, and I know that part of the NYT Audio app is in response to print media's adapt or die mode. But blood sports? The only beta testers there are the athletes themselves.

Fly Away

We are six years late to the party, but finally into Stranger Things. Over the weekend we finished the first season, and I have little doubt the show will be at the top of our play list until we catch up with all of you fans. 

It's hard to say why I have resisted the series for so long, other than its main hook, that 80s thing, is a little off-putting to me. I did not love the 80s. Gasp if you must, but a combination of challenging personal situations made it a very tough decade for me, and so I don't have much nostalgia for it. 

But if there was one detail in Stranger Things of life back then that resonated with me, it was not the music, or the fashion, or the clunky technology, and even though I love a banana seat bike, it wasn't those either, it was the simple presence of a mix tape. Just seeing the hand-lettered cassette took me back to those pre-playlist days when, if you really cared? You spent hours finding the perfect songs and meticulously putting them in order: dropping the needle on the right track on the vinyl LP while simultaneously hitting play AND record on the tape deck. 

It was an art. And the products of that labor were treasures. In certain situations, you couldn't give a more meaningful gift. Even if the tape was for yourself, listening to it later it was always like a little time capsule, a trip back to who and where you were when you made it.

When we were kids in Saudi Arabia, western music was not readily available to us. We could hear British pop traveling 17 miles across the Arabian Gulf to us from Radio Bahrain, and once a week we might hear American Top 40 on our nearest Voice of America station. In any case, we had to wait until we went back to the States to buy records, but it didn't stop us from making mix tapes. We would record from the radio, or from another tape deck snugged up to ours, or borrow records from our friends, but we had mix tapes. 

And in the late 70s and early 80s? All of our cassettes had at least one song by Olivia Newton John. I was so sad to hear the news that she died today. Maybe it was nostalgia that made me search her discography, but when I did I found the last thing she released, The Window in the Wall, a song she sang with her daughter last year. Even at 72, having battled cancer for decades, her voice was as strong and warm as ever. I will miss knowing she is in the world. 

How Life Goes On

The babysitting request came just as Delaney dropped her packed bag in the dining room. Her dad was on the way to drive her home when Heidi's phone chimed. Would we be available to watch our friends' little girl, Olivia, for a couple hours? 

Would we!

And as it turned out, Olivia's dad dropped her off a few minutes before Delaney's dad picked her up, so our 18-year-old guest got a chance to meet and hold our 5-month-old guest, and so did her dad. 

"I think I'm ready for the next generation!" he smiled, bouncing the baby.

I raised my eyebrows. "Right now?" I asked.

He shrugged, obviously enjoying the infant endorphins. "Whenever it happens," he answered. "Whenever it happens."

Would Go Again

We made it downtown to National Theater, parked, and slipped into our left-aisle row M seats with about 10 minutes or so until curtain on the matinee of the musical Six. Having attended several Broadway shows, Delaney was impressed. "This is the closest to the stage I've ever sat!" she said with a smile. 

And although they were the best seats I could get on short notice, the auditorium was not full; no one ended up sitting to my left, and our view of the stage was excellent. The show itself, a campy musical comedy full of girl power that presents the stories of the six wives of Henry VIII as a pop concert, was also really good. 

"Would you recommend it?" I asked Delaney as we filed out of the theater 90 minutes later.

"Definitely!" she answered. "Some shows are good, and some shows are fun, but this one was both! Thank you for bringing me."

"Anytime!" I told her, and I really meant it.

Priority One

Heidi's goddaughter Delaney is staying with us for the weekend. It's the last time we'll see her before she heads off to college in a couple of weeks, and so we are making the most of it. After we picked her up from the train station we went thrift-shopping and then out to lunch in the Mosaic District, and this evening we had a nice dinner at home, played a few games, and watched some Stranger Things. We have tickets to the matinee of Six tomorrow at National Theater. 

She's been spending time with us every summer since she was born, a fact we were all reminded of tonight when we were choosing games. "Quirkle!" she said, pulling out the bright box. "I remember this!"

"You should!" I laughed. "We got it because you couldn't read, yet. You know how committed we are to having fun around here!"

Location Services

There's a bit of a lag in the weather app that I favor. Not a fan of push notifications, I'm kind of choosy when it comes to who I'll allow to interrupt me with whatever their algorithm deems important. But weather? Eh. 

It's sometimes helpful to know that rain is starting or ending, or that a winter storm warning is in place for our region. But that lag! For days when I am traveling I receive alerts for home, and then when it finally adjusts, I get notifications about the place I've been, not where I am now. 

There is an upside though. When I'm away, I like knowing when my garden has been watered by the rain, and sometimes knowing the urgent weather information for the beach or Maine or Buffalo makes the transition from there to here a little easier. 

Tonight as I drove home from the grocery store through an unexpected downpour, I was unsurprised when my phone beeped, but as the storm let up and I checked the update, I saw that rain was stopping in Atlanta, too. Knowing that my sister was looking out on the same type of weather made me smile.

A Little Lunchtime Poetry

I'm on a lot of mailing lists.

On any given day, I may receive newsletters about cooking, vegetarian cooking, bread baking, cheese making, teaching, teaching writing, poetry, challenging racism, an insider's look at congress, local news, news in Buffalo, news in the Twin Cities, farming in Maine, cheap travel deals, Swiss tourism, my horoscope, some general spiritual advice, Dog Mountain, upcoming performances in nearby venues, and yes, more (!).

I confess that [of course] many days I simply mark most of that type of message to delete without reading, but not always. That subject line and preheader text that writers and editors work so hard to perfect really does help determine whether that day's correspondence stays in my inbox. Whether I actually get to read it is another step, but I'm really glad that I took the time to read the July newsletter from Challenging Racism the other day. Under their recommendations, I followed a link to an online poetry workshop sponsored by the National Museum of African American History and Culture. 

That's how I found myself on a Zoom call from 12 to 1 this afternoon with the poet Anthony McPherson and a dozen other folks from across the country interested in learning about and writing some ekphrastic poetry. The genre is poetry written in response to a work of visual art, often taking the perspective of an individual in the painting, sculpture, photograph, or other medium.

Today we looked at three photos and a watercolor that are featured in the current exhibit Reckoning: Protest. Defiance. Resilience. McPherson shared some of his ekphrastic poetry inspired by the powerful images, gave us some pointers and direction, showed us how to work through the process, and then gave us some writing time. The writing that a few willing participants shared at the end was amazing: so moving and intense for the short time we had to compose. It's a genre and a process I can easily see using in my classroom.

It felt good to be a learner again, too. I'm almost [almost!] looking forward to getting back to school.

When Life Gives You Squash

 It hasn’t been a good year for my garden. 

I suppose I should be prepared for off-times, but the bounty of the last several seasons has spoiled me. This morning, when I returned to my garden after a week away, I had to toss more rotting tomatoes into the compost than I was able to harvest. The birds peck a few holes and the heat does the rest. After some inspection and maintenance, it seemed like the only thing thriving was butternut squash. There must be a dozen full-sized squashes ripening all over the garden where the single vine I planted has spread rampantly. But along with squash? Come squash blossoms, a treat limited only to the growing season. 

And so that is the harvest we are enjoying tonight, stuffed and fried and served with a sauce prepared from the few tomatoes I culled from the birds.

C’est le vie!

I’ll Report Back

 It seemed like a good fit. All the way home on our drive from Atlanta we listened to a brand new mystery book that begins on August 3, 2022, in a small town in NC right off the Appalachian Trail. The time and the place were spot on, and the comparisons in the reviews to “The Lottery” and The Shining made the novel seem even more appealing. 

But,

Let’s talk plot structure, shall we? We are 80% through the story, and friends? If this book is all they say it is, there has got to be a hell of a plot twist coming.