Bumpy Transition

There were a few moments today when I was setting up my new phone that I was afraid my oldest text messages wouldn't transfer over. I would have considered that an unacceptable loss, worthy of a trip to the Genius Bar, even, because of the messages I have from my mom. And as I remained calm, trying to trouble shoot the situation, one of the things I did was to text her, in an attempt to force the recovery of that chain of messages. Miss you! I sent, and for a long while, too long, that was the only little speech bubble on a vast, empty white screen.

In the end, the issue was not technical, but rather one of patience. When at last my new phone was totally restored from the back-up I had done right before activating it, that message was just the latest in a conversation stretching back many years, much of it mundane, but all of it a treasure.

Imperfect Topic

I always tell my students that mistakes and catastrophes make the best stories. "Nobody wants to read about how you get straight A's without even trying!" I say. "Give us a little conflict! Give us some struggle!"

That's why I was kind of enthusiastic when one of the young writers in my class said that she was thinking of writing about the time she dropped a whole bowl of mashed potatoes in her friend's backpack.

This potato dropper is kind of popular, and her friend happened to be in the class, as were a couple of witnesses to the accident. They all started to recount the incident enthusiastically.

"That was soooo funny," said one.

"How did you even clean your backpack out?" asked another.

"I just scooped them out as best I could," the victim laughed. "There's probably some still in there."

"I just don't know what lesson I learned, though," the author sighed. "Don't drop your mashed potatoes? That's not very interesting."

"It's not a universal message," I agreed. 

"I guess I could make it Be more careful," she suggested with a frown, "but I don't really like that one either.

I looked at her good-natured friend and her potato-sodden book bag. "How did she react?" I asked. "Was she mad?"

"No!" said the writer. "Not at all."

"I pretty much just laughed," confirmed the other student.

"Some people might get pretty upset about something like that," I shrugged. "Maybe there's a lesson in that."

The girl thought a moment. "I think I'll just write about the perfect chocolate cake I made," she said.

October 1969

These days Halloween is a big business, with entire retail spaces devoted to costumes and decorations, but it was not always like that. Although there were several rows of boxes with thin nylon costumes and plastic masks with cheap elastic bands that always broke almost before you could wear them lined up on shelves in the discount department store near our house, when I was a kid the holiday was a little less involved, but just as exciting and fun. 

In fact, one of the clearest memories of my childhood is Halloween 1969. [Insert wavy screen and harp music here.]

The orchestra was just striking the first notes of the theme music to Bewitched on TV, and I looked anxiously at my mom. "When is Daddy going to get home?" It was the Thursday night before Halloween the next day, and our perfect pumpkin was waiting to become our perfect jack o'lantern. 

Bedtime was usually 8:30, but tonight the plan was to watch America's favorite witch at 9:00 while carving the pumpkin. Just then, the front door opened and my dad came in, smelling of smoke and cool evening air. We rushed to greet him as we always did, hugging his legs. 

It was Dad's job to use our biggest knife to cut a circle around the stem and pull the top of the pumpkin off. After that, my mom scooped out the insides with a large kitchen spoon and plopped them into a bowl. My brother and sister and I plucked the slippery seeds from the stringy, orange guts, placing them into a separate dish where we would toss them with salt and oil and roast them in the oven for a crunchy, once-a-year snack.

Next, since there was only one pumpkin and three kids, we each picked a folded slip of paper from Phillies baseball cap to see who got to create the eyes, the nose, or the mouth. We drew our shapes on the back of the paper, and my mom transferred our designs in pencil to the pumpkin. Then my dad went to work again, carefully cutting along each line.

When he was finished, he carried our creation out to the front porch, my mom behind him with a candle and the three-legged milking stool we kept as an extra seat in the living room. Outside, we set the pumpkin on the stool by the door and placed the candle inside. Then we all stepped back while my dad lit the candle and my mom turned off the porch light, revealing the glowing face of our jack o'lantern.

Before bed that night, my mom had us try on the costumes that she had made for us. We were going to be the Rice Krispies elves, Snap, Crackle, and Pop. She had a lightweight cardboard replica of the cereal box for each of us to wear over our heads. Underneath, we were in tights and different colored t-shirts. Then I, as the oldest, had Snap's floppy white chef's hat, my brother had Krackle's red-and-white striped stocking cap, and my three-year-old sister wore a yellow toque.

She pinned our hats to finalize the fit so that our costumes would be ready for the parade and class party at school the next day. Then she sent us off to bed where we dreamed of the perfect Halloween we would have tomorrow.

My COVID Bunker

I looked around our home last night to size up what would need to be done to prepare it for company. It's been nearly 2 years since we have entertained anyone other than family, and in that time, well? Pandemic. Stay at home orders. Social distancing. You know.

Like many who could, we made the best of being at home, all the time, by adapting and adopting. Unable to go to the gym, we bought a mat and some extra weights so that we could work out in front of the TV. Those are stored near the bookshelves, right next to my ukuleles and songbooks. Likewise, I took up yoga and meditation, so a sheepskin, pillow, candle collection, and a few crystals have all taken residence in the spare room. Dog and cat training? You need games and equipment for that, and those are stashed all over the house, really, since that's where you can find our pets. Rock painting, ornament making, and other such crafting supplies are packed into bins which have to be stacked somewhere. Gardening and harvesting tools and containers fit into the closet and the rear of the cars, except when they don't. Quarts and pints of preserved tomatoes and jams are packed in printed cardboard cases which are stacked in the dining room next to the vinyl records we listen to occasionally. Assorted flours and ingredients for sourdough breads, bagels, tarts, English muffins, and canele are stored in mason jars on the kitchen counter right next to the freshly-roasted coffee beans bought in bulk from the roasters in Savannah, Annapolis, and Buffalo.

We made an art of hunkering down, and now that things are [mostly] opened up? It might be time to reoganize.

Maybe.

Right There's a Gap

The assignment was relatively straight-forward: students were to work with their table groups to complete a kind of a scavenger hunt, searching through a text to find examples of powerful writing. And yet, the classroom was almost silent as I circulated through, clarifying the task, answering questions, and encouraging kids to work together.

"Why aren't you talking?" I asked.

"I'm not done yet," one student answered.

"I know," I said, "the idea is that you work together and talk your ideas through."

"But he's got more answers than I do," the student pointed out. "Wouldn't that be cheating?"

And so it went, most students preferring to complete the analysis on their own instead of collaborating. 

"I don't understand it!" I said at last to one class, "It would be so much easier and more productive for you guys to follow my directions and WORK TOGETHER!"

I looked at them. They looked back at me. We were equally bemused.

"What!" I finally asked. "Have you spent the last year and a half learning all by yourself at home?"

Turns out? They had.

That's Good Writing

Walking through the neighborhood late this afternoon, I spotted a sign tacked to a telephone pole. Composed in pencil by a young and earnest hand, it was impossible to pass by.

Come to 2416 south culpeper street to watch a show of your life time. in order to see this you will have to get ready a qourter 25¢ make sure its one coin. your host is a stuffed skeloton in the door steps. he will have a cup in his write hand. get your qourter and put it in. I hope you enjoy it!

And although the capitalization, punctuation, and spelling were imperfect, I was just sorry I didn't have a quarter!

Second Nature

While I shopped at our neighborhood farmers market this morning, Heidi walked over to the adjoining playground to get a drink for Lucy from the water fountain. She found the basin filled with plastic cups of sand and water, and as she lifted one to clear the bubbler, two tiny girls ran over from the play structure, fixin' for a fight. 

"What are you doing with our cups?" they demanded, little hands on tiny hips.

Rather than tell them off, Heidi went full-Socratic on the pre-schoolers. "Do you think it makes it easier or harder to use the water fountain when your cups are there?" she asked them in her best kindly teacher voice.

They thought about the question a minute. "Harder," older girl answered.

"Don't we want people and animals to be able to get water to drink if they are thirsty?" Heidi continued.

The girls nodded. Heidi handed them their cups, and they ran off to play while she filled a bowl for Lucy.

"Well look you just spreading social skills where ever you go!" I teased her when she told me the story on the walk home. 

"It's my service to the community," she agreed, modestly.