I attended the morning session of the Writing Project Summer Institute today. One of the many cool things about the program is that once you go through, you're considered a "Teacher Consultant" and are forever after invited to any presentation that appeals to you. This morning was the first time that I'd been back in the three years since I'd done the SI. A friend of mine was presenting, and she invited me in.
I was a few minutes late and the first open seat at the familiar horseshoe-shaped set of tables was right next to the director, so I tried to slide quietly into it. I was a bit embarrassed, then, when my friend interrupted her talk to introduce me, but it wasn't long before I slipped back under the spell of the summer institute, and three hours of listening and writing and sharing vanished like silk hankies at a magic show. When it was all over, I had written a journal entry in the voice of a new immigrant, a list of everything in my refrigerator, and helped the director set up a blog and post to it. I also had a bunch of new resources and several ideas for using them with my students. Multiply that by twenty, throw in a ready-made writing group that meets twice a week, an all-day presentation by Barry Lane, a writing marathon, and a Progoff journal workshop, and you may get a glimpse of the Summer Institute.
I could do it again and again.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
JuNo Project Redux
Beano and LB sat across the breakfast table from Aunt Marcy. The Maine blueberries in their waffles had left thin purple smudges beneath the shallow amber pools of maple syrup still on their plates. Marcy thought that the smears looked like dark contrails reflected in miniature ponds. She reached for her writing notebook. LB drained the last of his milk, watching her with mild curiosity. “Have you written anything for the novel, lately?” he asked.
Marcy put down the pen and, resting her elbows on the table, sighed. “Noooo,” she answered.
“When are you going to finish telling our story?” asked Beano. “What’s the problem anyway?”
Marcy sighed again and shrugged. “It’s not like I don’t want to…” she started, “and it’s not like I haven’t been writing at all. I write my blog every single day.”
“But didn’t you say you were going to work on the novel this summer, too?” questioned LB.
“Yeah, yeah, I did,” she admitted. “I guess I don’t have a clear idea of where it’s going, and so I’m not sure what I want to write, and so I haven’t done anything on it.”
“Do you know what you’re going to write for your blog every day?” Beano asked. “Because, some days, I really just don’t have anything to say on mine.”
“No,” said Marcy, “I don’t know what I’m going to write on most days. It’s kind of stressful, but usually something occurs to me when I sit down to do it, and then it’s kind of cool. Plus, I’m liking the discipline of daily writing, and for some reason, I feel committed to the routine of posting every day, so I’m going to stick with it for now, even though I’m really not sure where it’s going, either.”
“Couldn’t you try the same thing for the novel, like writing for that every day?” asked LB.
“Well, I was doing that for a while at the end of February before I started my blog, but I couldn’t keep up with both. Then I thought that once summer came, I’d write a little every day on both projects.”
“What happened, then?” Beano wanted to know.
“Like I said, I’m kind of stuck on where your story’s going,” Marcy answered.
“But you also said that you can write your blog even when you don’t know where that’s going,” Beano persisted.
Marcy shrugged again.
“What are you stuck on?” LB asked. “Maybe we can help.”
“A bunch of things...” she trailed off for a minute, resting her head on her left hand. “Okay, here’s one for example. What about that guy in the antique shop? What’s his deal? Who is he? What does he want?”
“Who do you think he might be?” asked Beano. “What do you know about him?”
“Is he good or bad?” asked LB.
“He’s an antagonist; I’m pretty sure. He’s definitely suspicious of you two.”
“Why? What did we do?” LB asked.
“Well, he saw you looking in the window at that coin, and then you dragged Beano in a little while later. He knows he doesn’t know you.”
“Why did we go in there, again?” Beano wanted to know.
“Because LB saw a coin like the one you found in the pouch. You guys want to know if it’s valuable and what it’s called so you can figure out where it came from.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right,” remembered Beano. “What else was in that pouch?”
“There was the coin, a key, and a letter, signed AB and partially encrypted,” Marcy replied. “The letter was supposed to have been written by Aaron Burr, and it referred to some failed expedition, and the cipher was like the Beale Treasure ciphers.”
“What’s the key for?” asked LB.
“I was thinking that it would be to a safety deposit box. I read somewhere that there was a library in the town of Bedford that had once been a bank. You guys are going to go to the library to do some research and in the lobby they have a display about the history of the place. You’ll realize that your key goes to one of the boxes from the former bank.”
“What did they do with the boxes that weren’t claimed?” Beano asked.
Marcy laughed. “You’re going to ask that question at the library,” she told him.
“Well? What are they going to say?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” she said, “I haven’t written it yet. I guess I can work on that part— I have an idea where to go with it.”
“Good!” cheered LB. “What other parts are you having trouble with?”
“The last thing I wrote was about the farm stand,” she told him. “We take Mrs. Buford there and meet Anna. She mentions that her husband, David, is at the lawyers. Then a storm comes up, and we all go inside to wait. Actually, I could probably work on that part, too; I want Mrs. Buford to ask you guys to do some chores around her house.”
“Will she pay us handsomely for our time?” asked Beano.
“There will be compensation,” Marcy agreed, “both monetary and informational.”
That pleased Beano. “Good,” he said, rubbing his hands together in mock greed. “Good.” His expression changed. “Seriously, though,” he continued, “How does Aaron Burr fit in with everything? Is he going to be an important part of the plot?”
Marcy frowned. “I’m not sure about that,” she confessed. “I did some research last summer that I need to go back to. I don’t know what Burr’s role is. I don’t know what’s going to be down in that cavern, either.”
“The cave where I get knocked out, but then I’m fine?” asked LB.
“The very one,” she replied. “I have this notion that it was used during the Civil War for something—Underground Railroad? Confederate Gold? –and you boys are going to find something important, but I don’t know what, nor do I know how that will relate to Aaron Burr, the antique store guy, the lawyers, or the safety deposit box.”
“Hmm…” said Beano. “You better start writing if you want to find out.”
“You’re right,” conceded Marcy. “It’s never going to come together otherwise.”
Marcy put down the pen and, resting her elbows on the table, sighed. “Noooo,” she answered.
“When are you going to finish telling our story?” asked Beano. “What’s the problem anyway?”
Marcy sighed again and shrugged. “It’s not like I don’t want to…” she started, “and it’s not like I haven’t been writing at all. I write my blog every single day.”
“But didn’t you say you were going to work on the novel this summer, too?” questioned LB.
“Yeah, yeah, I did,” she admitted. “I guess I don’t have a clear idea of where it’s going, and so I’m not sure what I want to write, and so I haven’t done anything on it.”
“Do you know what you’re going to write for your blog every day?” Beano asked. “Because, some days, I really just don’t have anything to say on mine.”
“No,” said Marcy, “I don’t know what I’m going to write on most days. It’s kind of stressful, but usually something occurs to me when I sit down to do it, and then it’s kind of cool. Plus, I’m liking the discipline of daily writing, and for some reason, I feel committed to the routine of posting every day, so I’m going to stick with it for now, even though I’m really not sure where it’s going, either.”
“Couldn’t you try the same thing for the novel, like writing for that every day?” asked LB.
“Well, I was doing that for a while at the end of February before I started my blog, but I couldn’t keep up with both. Then I thought that once summer came, I’d write a little every day on both projects.”
“What happened, then?” Beano wanted to know.
“Like I said, I’m kind of stuck on where your story’s going,” Marcy answered.
“But you also said that you can write your blog even when you don’t know where that’s going,” Beano persisted.
Marcy shrugged again.
“What are you stuck on?” LB asked. “Maybe we can help.”
“A bunch of things...” she trailed off for a minute, resting her head on her left hand. “Okay, here’s one for example. What about that guy in the antique shop? What’s his deal? Who is he? What does he want?”
“Who do you think he might be?” asked Beano. “What do you know about him?”
“Is he good or bad?” asked LB.
“He’s an antagonist; I’m pretty sure. He’s definitely suspicious of you two.”
“Why? What did we do?” LB asked.
“Well, he saw you looking in the window at that coin, and then you dragged Beano in a little while later. He knows he doesn’t know you.”
“Why did we go in there, again?” Beano wanted to know.
“Because LB saw a coin like the one you found in the pouch. You guys want to know if it’s valuable and what it’s called so you can figure out where it came from.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right,” remembered Beano. “What else was in that pouch?”
“There was the coin, a key, and a letter, signed AB and partially encrypted,” Marcy replied. “The letter was supposed to have been written by Aaron Burr, and it referred to some failed expedition, and the cipher was like the Beale Treasure ciphers.”
“What’s the key for?” asked LB.
“I was thinking that it would be to a safety deposit box. I read somewhere that there was a library in the town of Bedford that had once been a bank. You guys are going to go to the library to do some research and in the lobby they have a display about the history of the place. You’ll realize that your key goes to one of the boxes from the former bank.”
“What did they do with the boxes that weren’t claimed?” Beano asked.
Marcy laughed. “You’re going to ask that question at the library,” she told him.
“Well? What are they going to say?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” she said, “I haven’t written it yet. I guess I can work on that part— I have an idea where to go with it.”
“Good!” cheered LB. “What other parts are you having trouble with?”
“The last thing I wrote was about the farm stand,” she told him. “We take Mrs. Buford there and meet Anna. She mentions that her husband, David, is at the lawyers. Then a storm comes up, and we all go inside to wait. Actually, I could probably work on that part, too; I want Mrs. Buford to ask you guys to do some chores around her house.”
“Will she pay us handsomely for our time?” asked Beano.
“There will be compensation,” Marcy agreed, “both monetary and informational.”
That pleased Beano. “Good,” he said, rubbing his hands together in mock greed. “Good.” His expression changed. “Seriously, though,” he continued, “How does Aaron Burr fit in with everything? Is he going to be an important part of the plot?”
Marcy frowned. “I’m not sure about that,” she confessed. “I did some research last summer that I need to go back to. I don’t know what Burr’s role is. I don’t know what’s going to be down in that cavern, either.”
“The cave where I get knocked out, but then I’m fine?” asked LB.
“The very one,” she replied. “I have this notion that it was used during the Civil War for something—Underground Railroad? Confederate Gold? –and you boys are going to find something important, but I don’t know what, nor do I know how that will relate to Aaron Burr, the antique store guy, the lawyers, or the safety deposit box.”
“Hmm…” said Beano. “You better start writing if you want to find out.”
“You’re right,” conceded Marcy. “It’s never going to come together otherwise.”
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, July 20, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, July 17, 2009
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.
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.
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