Away We Go

I'm still a bit groggy from the three hour time change and the 107-degree heat this afternoon, but a fat yellow crescent moon has just set on our second night in Tucson, and after two full days of sprawling city, trendy resort, and gorgeous desert landscapes, I'm still processing. Right before we left, we saw the movie Away We Go. When Burt and Verona pulled up to their destination on the second leg of their journey, I gasped and then leaned over and whispered, "Oh my gosh-- That's where we're staying in Tucson!" Since we got here, I've spent a good portion of my time trying to figure out just where in the lobby they were sitting. I will also tell you that our waitress tonight was nick-named L'il Britches, there was a tarantula in the parking garage, and down at the lazy river a fellow guest at the hotel, a balding, forty-something, complete stranger, shouted at me to "man up" when I chose to come down the water slide in a sitting rather than incline position. So far, it's been quite an adventure.

There's More to the Picture than Meets the Eye

It's the kids. They're why I haven't lost my mind teaching the same lesson five times every day for sixteen years. I take full advantage of our skill-based language arts curriculum and allow students to build and exercise their skills in ways of their own choosing. Their reading is independently chosen and they have a lot of latitude in terms of topic and genre for their required writing. That way, not only is every year different, but within any given year, each class is different, too.

There's something else. Even when I do recycle an exercise or an assignment, unless I change it a little with my current class in mind, it never works as well. Often I'm disappointed when I re-use an activity that students loved the year before only to have it fall a little flat with a different bunch of kids.

There's that element of zeitgeist that definitely influences group dynamics, and if you can ride that wave, you probably won't burn out. In fact, you might love your job for many years. Hey hey, my my.

Rust Never Sleeps

Yesterday, my friend and I went out to lunch after her presentation. She had her writing group in the afternoon, so we shot over to the strip mall right across from the university. Whether the pun was intentional or not, we couldn't resist the place called Tong Thai, and contrary to the name of the restaurant, we chattered away as we waited for our green curry chicken and pad prik goong. We caught up personally and with what was going on in our schools and the county, and the conversation inevitably turned to the writing project and finally to our thoughts on the future of our careers. "How long have you been teaching, again?" she asked.

"This year coming will be number seventeen," I replied.

"All in the same place and at the same grade?" She knew the answer, but she needed to hear it. "Don't you ever want a change?"

"Not really," I responded, and our conversation touched lightly on how different we were in that respect, but then it was time for her to go.

When I thought about it later, though, I conjectured that it was not so much a matter of temperament as it was approach to teaching. Sometimes it seems that the Holy Grail of teaching is to find something that works and to stick with it. We plan and teach and assess and reflect and tweak all in pursuit of ... what? That magic year that everything will go exactly as we planned, so that we'll never have to plan again?

That attitude, in my opinion, is the recipe for either burn out, or worse, fading away. Even if you find the perfect formula, who wants to do the exact same things over and over, year after year, whether or not they "work?" This thinking reduces us to assembly line workers, and in such a situation, who wouldn't want a change?

Fortunately, in my experience, no year has ever been the same as the one that preceded it. Maybe it's by hook or by crook, by chance or design, but I'll post my explanation of this lucky happenstance tomorrow.

Better than Cats

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.

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.”

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.