Indelible

There are some inexplicably unforgettable moments in my life, memories of small things that happened decades ago, and yet they return to me again and again.

One of them is a time in early 1974. I needed fabric for a home ec project in school. We were making simple drawstring bags, just a rectangle of material, with a big square pocket sewn on, then folded in half inside out, stitched up the sides, a folded seam on top, and a drawstring threaded through. It was a classic intro to the sewing machine for young girls.

My difficulty with the project is perhaps a story for another day, but this memory involves my mother and me going out into the dark of a wintery Sunday night to get the supplies I needed. I'm not sure where the fabric store was in relation to our house, but it seems like the trip was longer than a usual errand. Maybe it was because it was only me and my mom, which was also out of the ordinary, rarely did we go places without my younger brother and sister along.

I remember sitting in the front seat, and listening to the radio tuned to Casey Kasem's American Top 40, and not wanting to miss any of the countdown when we went into the store. I also remember the material we bought. It was a thin wale off-white corduroy with big yellow and blue flowers on it, perfect for the 70s, and I loved it. Back in the car, we drove home as the countdown continued. I'm sure we sang along, but I have no memory of the specific songs.

45 years later, it's still unusual for me to spend one on one time with my mom. Our family is very close emotionally, but not all of us geographically, and where two gather, the rest are often drawn. This week, though, my mom and I have spent lots time together, and plenty of it in the car. Today on an errand of a different kind,  Casey wasn't counting them down, but we did tune in to a station that played hits from the 70s, and we sang along as the miles rolled past.

Play it Again

Sometimes when I am watching recorded TV I forget that I can skip the commercials. The ads just kind of wash over me, as they have for most of my life: some are more engaging than others; none actually make me want to buy anything.

Occasionally, there will be a commercial that will date the original broadcast and fix it in a particular time, which is definitely not when I am watching it. At such times I experience a slight sense of being in two times at once, a milder version of the cognitive dissonance I imagine a real time traveler might feel.

Scenes of news or weather events in the past, holidays, and seasons gone by make me consider where I was and what was happening in my life when the recording first aired and what has changed since then. And for a moment I am lost, until the bittersweet tang of nostalgia slaps me to my senses and I hit fast forward, catapulting myself back to the present.

Uff Da

Minnesota is well known for the pleasant public nature of its denizens, but last night at the airport the "Minnesota Nice" was fraying a little bit. The addition of spring break and NCAA final four travel to the regular traffic at MSP flooded the curbsides of the arrivals area with weary travelers and harried drivers struggling to connect, load up, and head out.

That's where I found myself in the dusky late evening. Standing on tip toe, I jostled for position and scanned four lanes of braiding traffic for one dark gray Toyota with my mother at the wheel. Twice I grabbed my bag and dashed toward some promising sedan, only to be disappointed. As for my mom, she had to loop around twice, because it was so hard to spot me in the crowd.

As I waited, I witnessed many rushed reunions, and if anyone lingered a little too long in the loading lane, someone on the curb would grumble. Once, I even heard an open gripe and the beep of a horn, but just once.

The Window Seat

As I looked out the tiny portal of my window seat, other jets sped through the cold blue like toys. At 36,000 feet the air temperature was 81 below, and Ohio spread out below me like a lumpy gray quilt shot through with shiny threads of rivers. We were heading northwest, and every time I looked away from the window the cabin was bronze and dusky until my eyes adjusted from the sun to the plain gloom of the plane. Even so, after a lifetime of flying, I couldn’t look away: there was literally too much to see. 

March Marches On

Another year. another writing challenge in the books.

My students were greeted with congratulatory fireworks and the charge to reflect on their writing over the last month when they logged onto the challenge today. As always, I was pleased and moved by how positive they were about participating.

Many of my fellow slicers are also wrapping up their month of writing by reflecting on the experience. Day 31-- it was fun! seems to be the general consensus. They took a risk, they shared their thoughts, they surprised themselves. How cool!

As for me? I'll miss the community and the connection that each daily post provides, especially with the writers I know personally. I love the writing and also the glimpse into someone else's day. For that, I am already looking forward to next year, but in the meantime you can always find me...

Walking the Dog.

On Deck

After chasing away a pair of mourning doves who considered the eaves a perfect nesting place, I spent a little time on the first warm day of spring cleaning up our tiny deck. Perhaps 6 x 8 feet, it has served many functions over the years.

When we first moved in, there was a table and chairs under a forged-iron candelabra that held tealights. It was a little cramped, but we passed many a delightful evening out there dining alfresco, talking, and laughing long past dessert.

A few years later, when we lost the tall Virginia Pines that sheltered us from the parking lot below, it seemed the right time to transition to low-slung Adirondack chairs that maintained our privacy. Then, we spent many relaxing afternoons hanging out, reading, and writing.

And when a couple of years ago those wooden chairs could no longer be patched and repainted into usefulness, the space was left to hanging herb baskets, flowers, patio vegetables, and houseplants seeking to reconnect with their inner-wild.

It was in the aftermath of that incarnation that I found the deck today. Songbirds filled the budding River Birch that was planted to replace those long-ago pines. Empty hanging baskets and plastic pots were stacked in the corner; planter boxes and clay pots edged the railing; wooden shelves and outdoor storage bins neatly lined the inside perimeter. Dry leaves gathered in the corners, and lavender, rosemary, and catnip that survived the winter were peeking green between last year's dry stalks.

Sweeping the last of the winter debris into my dustpan, I was filled with possibility. What will the new season bring?

In Kid Years

Sometimes I think that middle school time is a little like dog years-- two months equals at least six. It only makes mathematical sense: when you're eleven or twelve, a couple of months represents a big chunk of your life so far, percentage-wise.

I was reminded of this chronological curiosity this morning. The intern who has been working with my class since January was out, so I cracked my instructional knuckles and stepped to the front of the room.

"Where's Ms. W?" the students asked in alarm.

"Her son had an assembly at his school," I said. "She'll be here later." Then I ran through the announcements, read the mentor text, and taught the mini-lesson. As the class was transitioning to workshop time, I circulated through the room checking individual progress and answering questions.

"You're a pretty good teacher, too," one of the kids told me.