Thicker than Blood

We had a big family birthday party tonight. Both of my brother's sons were born within a few days of each other in July, and my sister-in-law's brother's son was born that week, too. The boys are teenagers now, and there were thirteen of us in attendance at a casual midweek pizza party to celebrate all three. At one point during the evening, I overheard Judy, my sister-in-law's mother, recounting a conversation she had had earlier in the day: she had been describing who would be at the party, and she ended by saying, "It might seem crazy and confusing, but it's just our family."

I looked around at the assembled guests, and for a moment I glimpsed what her friend might have been perplexed about. There was my brother, my sister-in-law, their two sons, my sister-in-law's parents, one of her four brothers, his wife and son, their son's girlfriend, me, my partner, and our godson, who is not related by blood or marriage to any of us.

Any sense of discrepancy evaporated a little while later during our traditional singing of Happy Birthday as a round. I went second this time, and when my part was finished, I was able to sit back and listen to the last eight people belt out their parts in this most dissonant, yet wonderful, rendition of that simple song, happy and dear, and I knew then what family is, and that these people are mine.

It's Not the Destination

I like to think of myself as an "enjoy the journey" type of person, but lately I realize I have a few conditions on that attitude. For example, if the journey includes hiking, then I much prefer to go up first and down later. There are some hikes that start at a high point and go down, only to return to the top. These are not enjoyable to me. The most memorable journey of this kind that I have taken would have to be from the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. The North Kaibab Trail descends thirteen miles to the floor of the canyon, but our group was short on time, so we agreed that our destination would be Roaring Springs, a mere five miles below the rim. The trip down should have been idyllic; it was early June, the sky was a perfect blue, the air was cool, the sun was warm, the birds were active, and lots of wild flowers were in bloom, but my boots were weighted with dread, because I knew that every step down was one I would have to take back up-- and five miles straight up is a really long way. I can't say that I enjoyed that journey at all.

I understand that it's all in my mind, and so I try to work around it. When I think "Grand Canyon" these days, I think, "book a room at Phantom Ranch for a couple nights" or even "mules." Either would help improve the journey for me. When I ride my bike, before I choose my route, I check the wind and consider the elevation. I want to start out going up, or at least down on a veeerrrrry gradual incline, and then up in the middle, but if the wind will be against me on the way back, that's a deal breaker. (And then there are the days when the wind shifts while I'm on my bike ride, and that's almost enough to make me cry.)

Somewhere, I got it into my head that if I work diligently and in good faith, then there should come a point in any experience where I can coast and still expect to finish well. Now, that's the type of journey that I enjoy. Hmm... something makes me think that I may be missing the point.

Blackberries

No more than twenty miles, as the crow flies, from the home of the most powerful man on the planet is a modest ranch house on two acres. The country road that leads there dips straight up and down like a roller coaster without curves, and the driveway is at the top of the second hill, right before the next plunge. It's a perilous left to turn onto the property; the few cars that travel it rumble quickly along the narrow track, nearly invisible until they crest the hill. This is where my aunt has lived for almost fifty years.

In my mind, there is still a gravel driveway that runs past the house to parking in the back, and dogs that chase the cars coming and going, barking in the dust. There is also a blackberry patch out by the road behind the mailbox. In July, when the fruit was ripe, our mothers would send the five of us cousins out to pick the tart berries. Despite the summer heat, we had to wear jeans and long sleeves to protect us from the thorny brambles that made little ripping noises as they rasped across the denim and pulled at our shirts. The oldest of us pushed boldly in, reaching for the big berries contained in those cages of stickers that even the birds could not breach. We winced or gasped or even cussed when the tiny thorns at the base of the fruit impaled themselves in our fingertips, and by sheer force of will kept hold of our quarry despite the stinging, then carefully backed out of the patch, like freeing ourselves from the jaws of a trap, to drop the berries in a bucket.

When the container was full, five sweaty children trotted down the driveway and shucked our unseasonable clothes for a tick-check before changing into our summer shorts, and not long after that, the smell of blackberry cobbler would fill the unairconditioned kitchen.

Remote Access

I set my blog up a few weeks ago so that I could post remotely, but so
far I haven't had the occasion to try it. Today is the day. We took
the dogs to a dog beach about an hour from our place. Well, the trip
should have taken an hour, but the park is located on a little
peninsula that juts into the Chesapeake Bay, and the last five miles
of the route are an in-and-out road. Some kind of accident had
closed the all the lanes, and we were stuck for over an hour. Once we got
there, the weather was perfect (this is one CRAZY July), and the dogs
had a great time. Unfortunately, the traffic was still backed up a
couple of hours later when we were ready to go.

It's hard not to stress about stuff like that, but after a while I
just reminded myself that I'm on vacation, so no worries. And now here we
are sitting outside dockside at a little seafood place that we found our way to at a small
marina near the confluence of the Severn River
and the bay. The dogs are chewing on sticks, and we enjoyed our dinners. (Of course, no fish for Josh, but he said the chicken fingers and fries were good). The sun is setting,
there's a light breeze blowing, and I'm phoning the blog in in case we
don't make it home in time.

Shoulda Coulda

"I like it when the weather's like this, because then you can just relax," Josh told us this evening as he looked out at the overcast sky through the sliding glass doors. "You don't have to feel guilty about staying inside and just reading or whatever." I knew exactly what he meant. Our friend, Jen, and I call days like that "Guilt-free Movie Days." There's something about a nice day that demands you be out in it.

Of course, the rules change from season to season, and so today didn't actually qualify as an inside day. Mid-July and we expect it to be really hot and really humid around here, but the weather today was overcast, and although it was a bit humid, it really wasn't hot, so the three boys and I loaded up the bikes and took a fantastic 12-mile ride up and down the canal. We saw a deer, great blue heron, and tons of fogs and turtles, and we didn't even care when we got rained on. It was awesome, and when we got home, the boys were tired and starving, but pretty happy, I think.

I wonder about this notion of acceptable or appropriate recreation. Where does it come from? Why do we feel like there are rules governing the use of our time? Are we so over-scheduled that it has come to this? It's hardly surprising that we would prefer to be outside on a lovely day, but it's kind of a shame that someone might feel guilty about time spent reading on even the nicest of days. Maybe we should all just take our books outside.

It'll Change You

I just got off the phone with my friend who is taking our local Writing Project's Summer Institute. Like everyone I know, myself included, she was hesitant to give up five weeks of her summer, but we just spent thirty minutes talking about how awesome it is. "I can honestly say that there hasn't been one minute that I felt was a waste of my time," she told me. That's pretty amazing when you're talking about two weeks of four 6-7 hour days of professional development with three more weeks to go, but I was right there with her. "Are you jealous?" she teased me.

"Yep," I answered. We talked a little bit about the WP Continuation PLC that I'm supposed to facilitate next year and what it might look like. "Where does personal writing for the teachers fit in?" I wondered.

"I think it's crucial," she said. "They have to write outside and bring it in. You don't understand it until you've done it, but the writing is key to building community." Then she told me the most surprising thing of all... this teacher is pretty well-known and admired for her creative projects and unit plans. "I'm done with projects," she said. "From now on, there's going to be a lot more writing in my class, and it's going to be authentic writing. I don't care what it looks like; I just want to see what my kids have to say."

Wow. That's what I have to say.

Making a Difference

A few days ago, I friended a former student on facebook. I had been her mentor from grades 6-8, but she had moved the summer before starting high school, so I was glad to reconnect with her after four years. I knew she had graduated from high school in June, and I sent a message asking how she'd been and what she was doing. She replied right away. hey i been gud nd thanx i miss u being my mentor nd erything we should chill one day

So I invited her lunch, and we're going tomorrow. Yesterday, when I logged into fb, I noticed her status on my newsfeed: CANT WAIT 4 THURSDAY

Awwww, I thought and clicked over to her page, where I read the following exchange with her friend, N:

R: CANT WAIT 4 THURSDAY
N: Y?
R: cuz im goin sumwere
N: Oh
R: YEP WIT MY OLD MENTOR
N: ? Mentor?
R: SUM ONE WHO KEEPZ U OUT OF TROUBLE
N: I know what it means. Didn't know you had one
R: YEP HAD 1 SINCE DA 6TH GRADE

I particularly like the part where she assumes that her friend doesn't know what a mentor is. It is soooo in character and reminds me of a time when she was working out with the girls basketball team in middle school. The guy I coach with was running them through a drill. "Dribble with your left hand!" he directed, but she continued down the court with her right. "Left!" he shouted. "Use your LEFT hand!" Still she dribbled on with the wrong hand. As she past him, he caught her eye and said sarcastically, "Your OTHER left!"

"Oh!" she replied with equal exasperation. "Well make up your mind!"