Time Flies

This last term has gone at an amazingly speedy rate. I am feeling the effects of Katrina more than ever. She blew through here when we had been in school four weeks. Anybody who has ever taught early childhood knows that it takes that long to establish routines, individually assess levels, etc. You absolutely cannot have a two week break at the end of August. But that's what happened, and it took at least a couple of weeks to re-establish routines (these children had suffered severe trauma) re-assess levels (severe trauma), and get our bearings again. So at the end of September we were back to where we'd worked so hard to get at the end of August, and I can really tell now just exactly what the cost of it was to this school year. Around the first of April, I began to feel extreme urgency. And guilt, of course. Guilt always accompanies the last term because you look back at all that was left undone, or at least I do. I have a hard time seeing what was accomplished because I am so urgently trying to squeeze every minute out of the last days. This year, the loss of time found me focusing more on literacy and math and leaving a lot of other things undone, such as science/ social studies/health. All those things that are so vital for concept development. I've tried to cram it all in now, and it's been a whirlwind, to say the least. Right now, we've got going: moon journals, life cycles, plants/seeds, Mother's Day projects. Last week, I threw in ice cream making and a mariachi band for Cinco de Mayo.

Carrye wants us to teach a math camp this summer, so I find my mind on that a lot--how to secure a location, get the word out, set up the centers, etc. Then there's writing project stuff on top of it. I talked to Katie last week, and we reminisced about how we used to teach literature camp in my backyard in Petal. There was never a time back then when the two of us didn't have something in the works. She'd come in and say, "I need to make some money", and before she walked back out we'd have something planned. If you know how and aren't afraid of hard work, you can make a thousand dollars working five mornings a week, no problem. We'd plan the greatest learning experiences, going all out, pulling out all the stops. Then, at the end of the week, we'd hit the stores and "invest" our money in household furnishings. One Saturday, at the end of a camp week, we found ourselves at an auction in Hattiesburg. The auctioneer called us "outlaws", but she came away with a nice loveseat and two bird prints, and I got a round table, a sofa for my classroom, three side chairs (one of which I'm sitting in right now), and a painting. Tim and Rob weren't exactly thrilled when we called them to come and get our purchases, but they had to admit we really know how to stretch a dollar.

Pretense

I shouldn't have started reading Elie Wiesel's Night. It has me feeling very down, combined with the rainy weather, which always pulls me down, too. I have too much to do to feel down right now. I am taking a break (short break) from writing reading reports to send home with my children tomorrow. I am afraid I am not going to get them all done. There was a meeting after school, and I didn't get home until 5:35. I was running (and I do mean running) around the kitchen doing several things at once: chopping vegetables, browning meat, starting a pot of coffee (no sleep last night), jotting items on a list of things I must absolutely do before my head touches the pillow tonight, looking over Lizzie's papers, listening to Hannah tell about her math test today, pulling off clothes and jewelry (I wore two different earrings today; nobody mentioned it), putting a load of clothes in the washer, talking to Katie Bug's mother on the phone, checking e-mail and finding one from Kati Pearl's mother that had to be answered right away. By 6:00, I had most everything at least under some semblance of control. Tim called. He wanted to stay in Hattiesburg for Bible study, did I mind? "Do you need me?" I always need you; can't live without you; get home as soon as you can; be careful; I love you.

I really should be hitting that list, but this week has been so very fast-paced and I am very tired. Tessa, if you're reading this, I promise I will read your entry tonight. I know I promised I would do it last night. I know. But tonight, I mean it. I meant it last night, too.

I need to go back down to the nursing home and clean some more, but the weather is sounding really bad out, and I hate to leave the girls by themselves in case the power goes off. Every time it goes off since Katrina, Lizzie asks how many weeks will it be off this time.

I did cancel tomorrow night's study group session, which gives me a little more time to work on these reading reports. I really did not want to cancel, because I've got some good stuff on writing strong leads/dynamic conclusions/word choice. I am having a great time with the study group members; I love having their input on these lessons I'm putting together. I hope they are finding it helpful as well.

Why is it that far too often the more you know about someone the less you like them? I just did an internet search on someone, and some things came up on my screen that I did not want there. Sometimes I just do not like people. Actually, a lot of times I don't. It's the rain and the book, I hope.

Why did I promise my parents I'd send these reports tomorrow? Why do I do these things that seem like fantastic things to do in theory, but take up so very much of my time? Why? I guess because I want my girls' teachers to do it for them. They don't, but I want them to. So I do unto others. While I was leveling the children, I was jotting down all these notes about which strategies they use while reading and which ones they don't (but should), so I sent a letter home saying that I'd type up my notes and send them home with the children Thursday. But now I don't see how I can get them all done (well, done well) by tomorrow. Maybe I will work on them over spring break and send them home with the report cards.

I love my job. In what other job would you get told every single day that you're beautiful? That you're funny? They slip up and call me Mama and I don't correct them. "Mama, what do you want us to do after we write in our journals?" Come and hug me and then choose a book to read to a friend. Today, I stood in front of the mirror before we went to lunch and announced to them that I am too fat and I am going on a diet right away. They were indignant. "You are not too fat!" "You are perfect!" "You are beautiful!" "I love you!"

I will do a few more reports, and then I will take a long bath and try to unwind so I can get a good night's sleep. No, wait! I have to put the clothes in the dryer! I have to pack Lizzie's lunch! I have to iron! I have to make parent phone calls! I have to read to Lizzie! I have to get her in the tub! Why am I sitting here pretending I have time to write?

I slept 7 hours straight last night. When I looked at the clock and saw that it was 6:12, I was at first disoriented. How could it be 6:12? What happened to 1:30, 2:45, 4:15? Most nights, I see several different numbers on the clock before the alarm goes off. I looked in the mirror and didn't recognize myself: no puffy eyes, no red cheeks, my stomach even seemed flatter. I have always wanted to experience the healing powers of sleep that I've heard and read so much about. God is good.

We had to take Lizzie to MEA yesterday afternoon. We'd planned to go the the Backdoor Coffeehouse last night--David had a Celtic band coming, and some other people lined up. We had arranged a babysitter and were going to even actually go to eat beforehand. It was going to be a--dare I say it?--a night out. I have distant memories of those. But Lizzie has a sinus infection that has gotten into her ears and has her throat all raw, and on top of that (on bottom of that?) she injured her tailbone on the playground Thursday. The doctor said it could possibly be cracked and that he could x-ray it, but there's really no point because nothing at all can be done for it. She got a shot (a NINETY DOLLAR SHOT), a flu test (a SEVENTY DOLLAR FLU TEST), and a prescription for an antibiotic. It was nearly 8:00 when we finally made it home. She went to sleep in the car and slept until 6:12 this morning.

The Arch books I ordered on President's Day are trickling in. Even the orders I cancelled are coming, which irritates me a little but I'm trying not to think about it. It's my own fault. I got carried away. A couple of days before, I'd ordered some from Concordia Publishing House. I'd been thinking about the Arch books we had when I was little. Arch books are bible stories written for children. We had dozens of them; I learned to read when I was four because of those books. I'm pretty sure Angela got (stole) them all from Mama's house, but she won't exactly say. She got suddenly evasive the last time I asked her about them. Fine. I can always just order my own. So I found a source for them (CPH), but their ordering process is just not at all user-friendly, and their processing is slow. So I did what I always do and went to Amazon. I like to order from small companies when I can, just like I like to bypass Wal-Mart and buy from smaller companies, but I really wanted those Arch books for Lizzie, so I went to Amazon. When I saw the 796 offerings there, something just came over me, I guess. And so many used sellers! Some selling for as little as 1 cent! Well, I just starting clicking "add to cart", "add to cart", "add to cart" over and over again. I'd click on a title, find the cheapest seller, twenty cents, fifteen cents, eighty-five cents, all in good condition, and I bought about thirty-five books in no time flat. Seven of them I had to purchase new from Amazon at anywhere from a dollar ninety-eight to three ninety-eight. I was giddy with excitement, drunk on the savings. I went through the one-click ordering at record speed, barely glancing at anything except the totals: twenty four something from used sellers, and twenty one something from Amazon. I clicked the okay button at about the same time I glanced at the final total, including shipping. WHAT!?! Good grief. Good grief. Good grief. I am an idiot. I was paying $3.95 to ship EACH one of those twenty cent books, and only $7.98 to ship EVERY one of the new ones. What to do? I clicked around the site and learned that you can cancel orders within thirty minutes of ordering. So I went to work pulling up every single one of them and cancelling all but the new ones from Amazon. I had them all done within ten minutes, working fast. Still, in about an hour I started getting order confirmation e-mails from all these individual sellers. I sat here and responded, over and over, to those e-mails: I am sorry, but I cancelled that order. Please do NOT send me the book. Out of thirty orders, I've gotten three of them anyway. I hope that's all that didn't get cancelled.

Hannah made the varsity cheerleading squad. She was excited for thirty minutes, until she found out her best friend didn't make it. They cheered together on the junior high squad, so she has some changes ahead of her. She's still a little down about it, but I can see some of the excitement coming back. I am glad that relationships are more important to her than accomplishments. She's had a tough week, though.

Lizzie started journaling this week. She's been journaling in kindergarten, of course, but I bought her a little spiral bound journal at the dollar store and she's been writing in it every night.

I finished Life of Pi. I miss being on that lifeboat with Pi and Richard Parker. I'm reading a strange book now, "The Boy on the Bus". Strange. I've copied one passage in my notebook already, though. When I read, if I own the books I underline interesting passages or phrases to revisit; if I borrow the books from the library or a friend, I write the passages or phrases in a notebook. This is what I copied from "The Boy on the Bus": "I do care what other people are saying, but not because I care what they think. It's just that sometimes what other people say shows a truth you cannot see yourself. Because you're always too close to your own life."

I started yet another blog this week, a daily news blog at www.mrsatwood.com. I hope I can keep it up. Sometimes I think I work myself into a hole that I can't dig out of. The point of a new communication tool should be that it works for you, not that you work for it. Now that Elton has fixed things so that I can access blogger.com from school, it shouldn't be a problem. I can post quickly during snack time and be done with it.

Thursday at lunch, B, who was wearing a new outfit from J.C. Penney for the class picture and had new gold metallic thong flip-flops to go with it, announced that only people wearing flip-flops could play with her at recess. We had a warm spell earlier in the week (which was wonderful, wonderful, wonderful) so a couple of the girls actually did have on sandals and flip-flops that day. Others came to me, upset by the announcement. So I gave a little teacher speech when we got back to the room, and I heard no more about the flip-flop club. However, yesterday morning, which dawned bright and cold, with a low of 44, K and T came in wearing jeans, long-sleeve shirt, coats, and flip-flops. I don't know how they convinced their mothers.

I did something yesterday that I regretted almost instantly, which let me know I shouldn't have done it, and now I'm thinking about how to get out of it. I got an e-mail invitation from Sherry to go to the national scoring conference in Denver again this year. Last year was really great; I learned so much, even though they worked the dog out of us. I mean, they worked us hard. Still, though, it was a great experience, and I was glad to be invited again. So, even though I had niggling doubts the whole time I was doing it, I faxed her all the info she requested, and then I just pushed it to the back of my mind for the rest of the day. Last night after we got back from the doctor, though, I saw that I had another e-mail from Sherry. She thanked me for faxing the info, but said she'd be out of the office for the next two weeks and wouldn't be able to get the fax, so could I just e-mail the info or call her on her cell. So I'm thinking that maybe instead of doing that, I'll just tell her I've had second thoughts and to give someone else my spot. I'm going to think about it for a while longer.

I heard from Firebird this week. I miss talking to her. She was having a little trouble with an online professor giving unclear assignments. She'd give the prompt for a paper, but then hold the students accountable for things that were not listed in the prompt. Even though our conversation was not based on personal things, I still enjoyed having contact with her. She might come here and spend a weekend with us at the end of this month.

I gave Rachael another chance Wednesday night. On the second episode, her theme was wine. She cooked three dishes with wine: a scallop and artichoke thing, a veal and pasta dish, and peaches in port that she served over ice cream. She suggested that you invite your friends over to watch you cook this meal and serve them wine while they watch. On the first episode, she made a dessert that I'm going to make as soon as I finish the sugar fast I'm planning. (I'm having a lot of joint problems, and a sugar fast always helps.) She threw a chunk of butter in a skillet, added dark brown sugar and sliced bananas, then at the end put in some rum. She served that over caramel ice cream. I think that'll be good, even though I have a milk allergy and ice cream has adverse effects on me.

I did have company while I cooked Thursday night, but I served them coffee instead of wine. Tim and his siblings have been invited to sing at Lowery Creek Baptist Church tonight, and they were practicing here. It was nice listening to them while I peeled potatoes with a paring knife (take that, Rachael), and put together a meat loaf (Rachael always stuffs her meat loaf and makes a roll out of it). They have a good sound because they all know how to sing all the different harmony parts. While I peeled and chopped with a paring knife, I amused myself by singing along and trying to pick out parts they weren't singing. I'm good at that, finding hard-to-hear alto or tenor notes, even trying out bass parts from time to time. I don't guess I'll be able to go and hear them tonight; I'll need to stay here with Lizzie. I'm thinking of renting Out of Africa to watch.

Say it ain't so, Raych

I got home around 5:30 today; I'd already missed the first Rachael Ray episode. Tim was grilling, so I sat down with a cup of coffee to watch the second one. (I'd planned to get in a good walk, but on the way home something came over me and I felt awful; this is happening a lot lately.) Anway, I thought the coffee and Rachael would give me a second wind. Three minutes into the episode, she picked up a vegetable peeler and started peeling potatoes with it. Well, I'm sorry, but it was like the fall of an idol or something. She might just as well have opened a box of instant mashed potatoes or hamburger helper as far as I'm concerned. Do real cooks use vegetable peelers. No, they do not. Real cooks use paring knives for peeling. Vegetable peelers are for people who use cake mix and minute rice. I could forgive her for having an extra vowel in her name, but not this.

Life of Pi is getting better and better; the only problem is I am so swamped with work I don't have time to finish it. By the time I finish everything at night and open it, I'm falling asleep. I love the section toward the beginning about his conversion to Christianity and then to Islam the next day (in addition to being a Hindu already). It's good stuff.

Anthony Burger will be buried tomorrow, I think. The e-mail I got last Thursday morning about his death just took something out of me. I couldn't shake the heavy feeling all day. I can't say that I like Southern gospel music, because I really don't. Not the lyrics (most of them anyway) and not the sound. And yet, because it was such a part of my growing-up years, I still keep up with all the artists. My aunt and uncle used to follow them around and one of my uncles sang and played guitar in a gospel quartet. We'd go to hear the Speer family or the Hemphills, and we knew all their songs. Angela and Pat and I would sit right on front and sing so loud they'd call us up to do numbers by ourselves. They'd put us up on a piano bench so everyone could see us, and we'd get after it, singing rounds and parts. We did sound good. Now, when I'm feeling nostalgic, I'll put in a Gaither Homecoming video and listen and sing along. The girls will walk through the room, and I'll say "See that woman? That's Candy Christmas. I sang for her once. She told me I was a good little singer. See that man? That's Ben Speer. I sang for him several times. He picked me up and put me on a piano stool. I sang a song about Joshua and the walls of Jericho tumbling down. He played the piano for me." The girls will say, "Mama, you've told us that a million times."

I'll bet Candy Christmas and those Speer women use paring knives to peel potatoes.

Note to Maja

Maja, our district superintendent called a faculty meeting yesterday to tell us about a new computer program the district has purchased that will "instantly assess student writing" with a four-point rubric. I held my tongue because I've come to understand that the name of the game (and game it is) is the standards-driven quick fix and I've learned to quietly keep the faith and fight the fight in other ways. When I got home, I started supper, turned on the computer, and found the e-mail notification of your response to my rubric blog. I was thinking to myself, "Maja Wilson, Maja Wilson. The name rings a bell." But, I couldn't place it. I went back to the kitchen to slice onions and mushrooms, and that's when it hit me. You're the author of Rethinking Rubrics. I don't know how you found my blog, but let me tell you this: the first thing I thought was, "Shoot! I hope she doesn't read yesterday's entry and tell Alfie Kohn about my star chart!" The reason I ordered your book from Heinemann is that Alfie Kohn wrote the foreword. Or, at least, that's what caught my eye initially. I probably would've ordered it anyway after reading the description, because this is the time of year I am supposed to introduce the state writing rubric to my first graders so they'll have a jump start on it for second grade, when their writing will be assessed by it. And, consequently, this is the time of year I struggle with my deep conviction that they do not need the cursed thing because they are just becoming fairly adept at the conversational tools that yield deeper and fuller results than the state rubric, which somehow has a dehumanizing effect. Perhaps because it is not, after all, human?

I begin writing instruction in August using "organic vocabulary", or "key vocabulary", as Sylvia Ashton-Warner dubbed it in her New Zealand classroom in the 1960's. I won't go into all of it, but the stories grow from these organic words (hopes, fears, love, sex) and the conversation surrounding them. All of the narrative writing we do stems from these inner thoughts, feelings, and images. "Success" is in how it affected us (laughter, tears, anger, snorts, "wonderings", intense personal connections). Enter the rubric-an intruder, without blood or breath, lacking the ability to laugh/cry/wonder/connect- and suddenly the success of a piece is to be measured against this list? Grade level vocabulary? Their word choice is well beyond grade level vocabulary; it is the vocabulary of their very lives. On topic? Why wouldn't it be? And it is so very easy to get a 4 on this rubric, and so then, even though I absolutely do not indicate to the children in any way that a 4 is what we're shooting for and we should be satisfied with it, suddenly these children with whom I have worked so hard to root out that need for extrinsic motivation that far too many of them have as a result of being alive for six years in our society, are satisfied with less than they should be, because they "topped out" on the rubric.

Recently, I was gathering materials and planning an outline for a study group I am leading on reading like a writer with the six traits in mind, and I took a quick break to check out some discussion forums I frequent. A member of one of the forums, a dyslexic man, had written this:

"I want to write but some one might read it but I want to writemaybe I can write in a code but know no code and some one might break the code and read But I want to write but some one might read it maybe I can write very small but some may enlarge it and then some one might read it I want to write but I can not spell good which would make it hard to read but some one might be able to read it anyway O how fears hold us back from doing what we want to do Now I wrote for fun and games but we all must work to over come our fears"

A powerful piece, and yet it would not score at all well on the six point rubric I'd just been looking over.

I need to get out of here and pick up my daughter from cheerleader practice, but I did want to get a quick response to you. I just remembered that when I went to Heinemann to place an order that day, I was looking for books for our local writing project teacher consultants to discuss on our discussion board. I'm wondering if you would consider facilitating a discussion of Rethinking Rubrics on our board.

And yet, last night I was reading the portfolio entries of two National Board candidates, and I had the rubric beside me the whole time, dissecting the entry for evidence of the key components.

Slush

I just watched Rachel Ray make baked ziti and spinach/artichoke salad. I've started watching Rachel every night from five 'til six, two back-to-back 30 Minute Meals episodes. I can't watch unless I'm cooking, too. All of her meals involve a lot of chopping, and I find that very therapeutic. So while Rachel is pulling all of her ingredients out of the fridge and pantry, I do the same, pretty much deciding what we'll have as I go. Tonight, I quartered some of every vegetable in the house--two kinds of potatoes, squash, onions, carrots--put it all in a pan drizzled with olive oil. It's roasting right now and smells great. When Tim and the girls get home from the gym, we'll have those with some pork chops, peas, and rice.

This weekend, I read two novels. One by S. E. Hinton, who wrote The Outsiders. Strange, strange novel, this new adult one she's written. I would never have picked it up if I'd known it was a vampire story, but nothing on the jacket indicated that it was. The other is about a woman who coddled her son from the moment he was born--never let him suffer any consequences for his actions, had him switched around to another class if a teacher crossed him in any way, made phone calls if a coach wouldn't play him, etc. Sick. The novel was a sort of retrospective piece; she was looking back on his life the night before he was sentenced for murder in a drug deal gone bad. Now I've started The Life of Pi.

I'm doing a lot of reading these days and I'm beginning to have problems with my eyes. My arm is not quite long enough anymore. I just sat here and read through several course outlines from MIT's online courses. I was talking with Vernon earlier today, just for a second or two, and he gave me the link. Some of those courses look great. The readings and handouts are all there. It looks like a gold mine to me. Of course, you don't get any credit but I have never cared about that. Speaking of that, please don't anyone tell Alfie Kohn this, but I actually made a--are you ready for this?-- star chart Friday. I know. It's terrible. I felt cheap and ridiculous. But that's just how big a problem I'm having this year with parents bringing their children late and checking them out early. So I started a star chart for attendance and --you will not believe this--there will be rewards attached. I almost could not even type that. It's a long story and those of you who know how I feel about these things need to just trust me when I say it was necessary.

I guess we all have our quirks. One of mine is that I cannot be without earrings. I just don't feel right without them. The other morning, I went to the bathroom when I got to work, and noticed I only had one earring in. I didn't know if I'd lost the other one or what. One of my favorite pairs, too. I knew I didn't have any in my purse, but I searched through it anyway. So I just picked up the phone and called the florist when they opened at eight. Do you have some earrings, silver-tone, medium-sized, around ten or fifteen dollars? Let me check, ma'am. Be right back. (Pause.) Ma'am? We have some nice ovals with a dangling gemstone in the center for thirty. Is that all? Well, there are some small sterling silver hoops for ten, and some medium-sized ones for fourteen. Okay, I'll just take the ten dollar ones. I have an account there, and I need them delivered to the elementary school, room 104. What do you want me to put on the card? No card. No card? Do you want me to say they're from you or is it a surprise? No surprise. I lost an earring and I need a pair to wear today. (Pause.) Okay. You know there's a delivery charge? Sure, that's fine. Just bring them as soon as you can.

She brought them, and declined the tip I offered for hush money. She said my secret was safe with her. But. When we went out to the buses that afternoon, several people asked me about it, laughed, thought it was funny. Small towns are like that.

There's a slush machine in the cafeteria now. I cannot understand their thinking at all. About three weeks ago, all soft drinks were removed from the coke machines and replaced with "fruit drinks" that, according to the Coke man, have several more grams of sugar than any of the soft drinks he took out. The reason we were given is that there were some concerns about the health of the children, childhood obesity, etc. Fine. Okay. However, a typical lunch in the cafeteria is corn dog/cheeseburger/nachos, fries/tater tots, a vegetable that the children are not required to pick up, a dessert, a freezer full of ice cream sandwiches, chocolate dipped cones, etc. that they can purchase for fifty cents extra. Now a slush machine. WHAT????? Well, as if lunch were not already stressful enough for first grade teachers--we already serve all the food, clean up spills, open milk and ketchup and ice cream and plastic-wrapped plastic forks-- now we have to handle the slush money and remind them to take it to the cafeteria, etc. Shontelle says the only way we can survive is to laugh. She says we absolutely, positively must laugh. It is imperative that we laugh. Imperative. So we crack ourselves up by exaggerating the whole slush thing when the children leave to go to P.E. A typical conversation, with her words in italics, mine in bold: Slush machines are vile instruments from the pits of hell. Yes, straight from the bowels of Hades. Slush machines were invented by male Nazis. Yes, the plans were drawn up in a bunker in Berlin, perfected in the council halls of Mordor, constructed in Calormen. Well, there's one good thing, at least. They took those wicked Sprites and Mr. Pibbs out of here. At least.

I'm listening to a tape series by Robert Oden on Comparative Religion. It's really good; better than I expected. There are twelve lessons, I think, and I've only heard four.

I'd better go check the food. In the middle of this, I put on a pot of pasta and threw in every kind of cheese we have in the refrigerator. That's what Rachel does.

It Ain't Easy Having Principles

1 Corinthians 13:4 Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, 5 Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; 6 Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; 7 Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.

Another Valentine's Day ruined by those dadgum florist deliveries. Every February 14, I spend the school day trying to teach the children about friendship and love. Not that I don't do it every day, through class meetings and implicit interactions, of course. But on Valentine's Day, it's sort of our theme. This morning, we exchanged valentines, read books about friendship, read 1 Corinthians 13, made homemade cards for family members and talked about how yeah sure, you could go to the store and buy something, but a handmade gift contains something of the giver in a way that a purchased gift does not. This afternoon, the children did all of their learning activities in pairs and small groups, working together toward answers, celebrating the putting of heads and hearts together to complete projects. Then we had our party and listened to the soundtrack from The Preacher's Wife, a class favorite, and the Eagles' Love will Keep us Alive and Dobie Gray's Drift Away, both teacher favorites. So it should have been a good day, right? But no, because around 2:00 those stinkin' florist deliveries started up, and eleven of the children got crap from their parents, Mommies and Daddies who "love them" and want to do it publicly. I knew it was coming, but there was not a thing in the world I could do to stop it. Suddenly, we are not a community working together, we are "us" and "them". The tears started up, the downcast faces where smiles had been moments before. A rotten ending to what should be a day of love and friendship. All because some parents are hellbent on "vaunting", "puffing up", and "seeking their own". You tell me what other reason there could be for sending a gift to the school rather than giving it in a family setting when they get home? There is no other reason. There's just not. I watch it every year. I put half of them on the buses crying and upset because they don't understand why they didn't get a balloon or a teddy bear or a pail full of candy, and the ones who did get something are suddenly looking down on the have nots. And then I walk back to the crowd of teachers and give my yearly speech about the evils of elitism and greed, and loudly proclaim how much I despise the weak administrators who will not stand up to the florist and say we don't give a rip how much money you lose, we only care about the best interests of the children, and we will no longer accept deliveries on Valentine's Day. Then I add, because I can't help myself, I just can not, that the worst of all evils is a teacher who sends something to her own children at school. Because those people who work in town don't see all the crying have nots, but teachers do and should therefore know better. Lizzie was one of the ones in tears today, asking why all her friends got balloons and she didn't. Before I could say anything, Hannah said, "Give it up, Lizzie. Your mother has to make a statement."

I know people look down their noses at me and my causes, and I just don't care. Well, sometimes I do, but today I don't. I do pray for forgiveness for despising the weak, though. I do. I mean, I know for a fact that some of those teachers, even though they see the wrong as much as I do, and they have to comfort the have nots, too, send balloons to their own children so that they will not be among the crying. All I've got to say about that is that rather than saying, when they're grown, "What I remember about Mama is that she always sent me something from the florist on Valentine's Day", I want them to say, "What I remember about Mama is that she had principles and always championed the cause of the have nots."

Valentine's Day at the Atwoods was very nice, though. Very nice. It always is, and I am filled with gratitude that I am so blessed. Tim is very good to us. I had planned to sit down tonight and write about my birthday and my special birthday supper that he went all over Hattiesburg to get. All my favorites from different places, from the crab- stuffed mushrooms to the white chocolate bread pudding with raspberry sauce. But I had no idea it had gotten so late, and I need to get to bed.

Four Tens and a One

The children and I have been doing lots of explorations with place value lately, grouping straws with rubber bands, snapping unifix cubes, and then today I threw out some dimes and pennies since we'll be starting money in a few weeks. I've had about all I can take of missing addends--three of them still can't get it in spite of my very best efforts and the help of their classmates--so the money was a welcome change. Funny how the children who struggle with literacy can sometimes pick right up on difficult math concepts. It was that way with missing addends. Alexis is class champ at filling in those missing numbers, yet has the lowest reading level.

I am having a good year. Really, I am. One of the best in a long time. But. . . Some of these children are flat out lazy. That's the only word for it. It is hard, as a teacher, to admit failure to motivate. Very hard. And yet I have failed with a handful this year. They are disorganized, irresponsible. J____ leaves his reading book at home two or three days a week, every week. When the district reading specialist leveled my class last week, he read a level below the minimum level for January. When I saw his score, I was so very irritated with him, I just let him have it. He reads a level above minimum for me, and it is because I absolutely make him do it. He knows when he reads to me he'd better darn sure use every strategy I've taught him because he knows I know he can do it. But the reading specialist said he'd come to an unknown word and just look at her to supply it. After she'd told him a word or two, he thought he'd found a free ride, and he just let her pretty much tell him everything rather than analyze for structure or attend to meaning. So I've doubled up on his reading time this week, and he has such poor habits because he flat out doesn't care. This afternoon, while the children were having snacks, I called him back to the computer to watch me type a letter to his dad about a home reading plan I want them to follow. Then I took him to the book boxes and let him choose two level 12 books to take home in addition to an anthology he's been working on. I put the letter in his folder, and told him to pack his books in his backpack. About 10 minutes later, when I lined them up for the buses, I happened to glance over at his table and I'll be dadgum if those books, all three of them, weren't sitting there in the basket where he'd put them instead of packing them. I will not even say what I said to that child. I am just so very, very weary of being the only one who cares. I need more than a little cooperation from him.

Lizzie was invited to another sorority party today. What am I going to do about this? I thought those were all over, but I see that I was wrong. Friday afternoon, no less. Why in heaven's name don't those mothers want to go home on a Friday afternoon? Why would they choose to do Valentine's Day arts and crafts?

I don't feel at all well. Around noon today, I started getting a really bad headache and it hasn't let up. I think I'm running fever, too. I stopped by the grocery store to buy food, and I didn't even enjoy the produce section, which is usually one of life's greatest pleasures for me. Especially since the produce manager showed me how to open those plastic produce bags. I'm pretty sure I wrote about that here; I recently sat down and did some calculations and found that I'd spent about nine and a half years of my life fighting with those produce bags whereas now, thanks to the produce manager, I simply wet my fingertips on some fruit and those bags open right up for me. I did find some gorgeous pears today, and some nice hearts of Romaine. I bought a bag of shredded cabbage, too, because I've started eating a handful of it on my daily lunch salad. Now that I'm almost four tens and a one, and especially since the cancer scare, I am trying to get nine servings of fruits and vegetables a day. It takes some creativity, let me tell you.

I've been thinking a lot about communication lately. And also miscommunication. You just never know how someone is going to take what you say. Only God, and others who love you, see the intent of the heart. I think sometimes people just decide not to look on the heart. They make the conscious decision to see and hear the worst. That's what I think.

Now if I could talk about hairdressers for a minute or two. Talk about miscommunication. Why do hairdressers never hear what you say? If you say "just a little trim" you could walk out of there not recognizing yourself. I went last week to my hairdresser, and I do love Danita, and told her to take a little more than usual off the length. About an inch and a half. THE LENGTH, I said. THE LENGTH. So why'd she take off an inch and a half all over? I'm putting a photo here, taken today by one of my students, and you can see that the top layers are pretty short. That makes it hard to deal with. I like the layers to be long, because short hair is too high maintenance. When you're four tens and a one (almost) you don't need high maintenance hair.

I am almost finished with a tape series by Luke Johnson on the letters of Paul. Good stuff. I especially like the part about the faith of Jesus.

Strokes for Folks

SMWP functions never fail to impress me. Last night, at our Continuity Meeting at Cane Creek, Jen led us through a poetry writing experience that brought me to some harsh realizations about my life. I guess it's really the power of writing that never fails to make an impression on me, or is it the power of good writing instruction? At any rate, some changes are in order for me, and all because of that writing experience. Thanks, Jen.

Speaking of writing, I ran across a piece at Dane Conrad's blog that brought a smile to my face: http://www.wethreeconrads.com/index.php?module=announce&ANN_user_op=view&ANN_id=3. That little Reed is quite a cutie, and I will pray that Dane and Darcie help her find the lamppost.

Uplifting experiences are everywhere for me these days, it seems. After being totally burned out the last three or four years with National Board mentoring, I met two fantastic teachers from Petal last Saturday. Dr. Foxworth e-mailed me late last week to ask if I could work with "two crackerjack teachers" the next day. When I read the e-mail, I sat here thinking "I'd rather be shot at sunrise, walk across glass, have my teeth pulled out with pliers". But, it was Marilyn making the request, and Marilyn is all about giving and she inspires me to give, so I went. She was right. Leigh Cliburn and Tessa Trim are crackerjacks. It was refreshing to read their work. Makes me want to move back to Petal so Lizzie can be in their classes.

I got a laptop computer last week, and I've hardly had time to turn the thing on. I don't know why I bought it; purely impulse. It was the daily special on HSN, and I watched the presentation three or four times, thinking I didn't need it, but then somehow before the end of the day I'd placed the order. Just to show how much I do not need it, I'd forgotten about it completely when the UPS man knocked on the door last Wednesday. "Got your Gateway here." I almost told him we didn't order a Gateway, but then I remembered that I had. My question: How do you print from a laptop?

Yesterday I was playing Whitney Houston's "You Are Loved" while the children were working some math problems. (Yes, I know you're not supposed to play songs with lyrics while children are working, but the teacher needed it.) Katie Bug stopped working, stood, looked around for a few minutes, said "I just have to dance" and started leaping and pirouetting around the room. The other children watched for a while, then went back to work. When the song was over, Katie Bug sat down and finished her work too. It would seem that the environment is safe.

Jaydn is excited that he may get to "ride in a limbo". His mother got married in Las Vegas over the weekend, and he might get to go there soon and take a ride.

Looking On

The Halifax Explosion has been very much on my mind lately. I have even entertained the notion of perhaps going there, looking at the harbor, trying to imagine what is must have been like on that tragic day when all those people, ordinary people like me, were drawn to their windows to watch those burning ships and were killed, maimed, or blinded as a result of their onlooking. What is it about catastrophic events that draws us to look on?

My principal was fired this week. I have been an onlooker of this catastrophic event, watching and knowing that the handwriting was on the wall for quite some time. I watched, saying what I could when I could, knowing that it was futile. Onlookers are sometimes killed, sometimes maimed, sometimes blinded, sometimes escape unharmed, but seldom walk away unaffected.

If January was any indication of our activity level for the rest of 2006, I will be worn to a frazzle by December. There was the Visioning Retreat, Study Group meeting, mentoring session at USM, coffeehouse session with live music and poetry reading (which I skipped because by Friday night I could no longer put one foot in front of the other). Tomorrow night, we have a Continuity meeting at Cane Creek and I should be looking through my books right now, selecting titles to take to the book swap we're having, but it's really difficult for me to let go of a book. Right now, I'm reading six--five about writing and one about labor unions in the twenties( it is impossible for me to think in terms of abject poverty, of waking each day and having one's primary objective being to survive until day's end). One of the books I'm reading is entitled "Rethinking Rubrics". I've been rethinking rubrics for quite some time, and I don't know why I didn't write that book myself. I do, however, believe that rubrics are effective for a lot of projects, just maybe not for a piece of writing. I've seen them really bring down the level of writing among my first graders when I introduce them toward the end of the year. Suddenly, and for the first time, there are boundaries and definitions from without whereas, before, it was all organic and grew from within with no artificial additives, just well-prepared soil, air and light. Artificiality brings a kind of contamination of the previous purity and makes the writing less palatable.

This was an exceptionally hard week for me for a lot of reasons. I had to finally put my foot down about parental interruptions. Two of my parents were dropping in so often--sometimes twice each every day, which makes four interruptions from them alone, not counting the parents of the other 20 students who drop in only occasionally and when there is a good reason to do so. This is in addition to the phone calls these two make to my home every week, about three each, and then there are the e-mails. I was talking to these women sometimes eight times each week(sixteen conversations, count 'em). I have contact with most of the other parents two or three times a month, but these two would be waiting for me in the mornings at 7:15 (when I am trying to get ready for the day, and in spite of the fact that no one except staff is to be on campus before 7:30), show up every day during my planning time (which is for PLANNING, and which I already have too little of), and come early in the afternoons to check out their children (a crucial time when I am trying to bring closure to the day). A couple of weeks ago, I started trying to tactfully put a stop to the excessive visits, but they didn't get it so I had to be very firm. The funny thing is (well, not really funny to me at all) they thought this was so out of character for me they began to think something was "wrong with me", which made them increase their visits to "check on me" and their phone calls at night to "see if my day went alright". They even had gifts and balloons delivered from the florist to "pick me up" because I "wasn't myself". That kind of thing turns my stomach. I am not having bad days; I am trying to enforce the visitation rules in order to ensure uninterrupted learning time for my children. That's all I want: I don't want candles and balloons and toiletry items, no matter how nice they smell. I asked the principal to send a letter home reminding parents of the visitation and checkout policies, and he did. We'll see what happens.

Yesterday we made the three hour drive to Lake Tiak O'Khata to celebrate Cleve and Georgia's sixtieth wedding anniversary. I sure didn't like spending six hours in a car on a Saturday when my to-do list was (and still is) several pages long, but we did see a lot of old friends and had a good time of fellowship.

Hannah is getting funnier and funnier. The other night we went to Cracker Barrel to eat and I stayed at the table while Tim and the girls went to play checkers because the frazzled (aren't they all) waitress had not yet brought our ticket. While I was waiting, Hannah came and brought some tip money and told me Tim had said he paid when we came in. I knew that wasn't right, so I told her to go ask him again what he said. When she came back, she said, "Look, I just don't have a short term memory", and I said, "What'd he say, Dorie?" Without missing a beat, she said, "He said, 'Swim toward the throat'." There I was, thinking I'd been quick with the Dorie thing, but I can't get anything past her at all.

I had a cancer scare a couple of weeks ago, but the biopsy was normal and the symptoms that led me to the doctor in the first place seem to have disappeared for now. I wrote a long piece about it, but it all kind of runs together and doesn't make a lot of sense in its current form. I wrote it in two voices, a "living voice" and a "dying voice" and I think I could polish it and make something out of it except for the fact that I'm not dying anymore and when I wrote it I really thought I was. It would probably not be possible to recapture that mood.

I love to smell the crown of someone's head. Each crown has its own unique smell. This morning, Tim and Lizzie were sitting at the table counting money for a deposit. I smelled and kissed Lizzie's crown, then smelled and kissed Tim's. Totally different, and it has nothing to do with shampoo or styling products, either. I wonder what the crown of my head smells like. I'll never know.

Where are my first roommates?

Today was a beautiful day, temperature in the upper 70's, lots of sunshine. I actually sunbathed for a while. January 2. While I was out there taking in some sun, this question popped into my head out of nowhere: Where are my first roommates, those babies who shared the nursery with me at Lackey Memorial Hospital on February 9, 1965? Surely I was not the only one born on that day at that hospital. I wonder how I could find out who they are. Track them down. Maybe plan a reunion. I did have a classmate in school whose birthday was also February 9. I didn’t like having to share my birthday with Mardis Taylor. And we were in the same class every year because the principal always divided the students alphabetically. The T’s and V’s were together, of course. That meant the class had to sing happy birthday twice, and by the second rendition, it sort of came out flat and not everyone was even singing toward the end. It never occurred to me then that Mardis and I might have once been roommates, and yet I realize now that we probably were. There was only one hospital in the area, so I’m sure his mother went there for his birth. I remember Mardis was chubbier than the other boys. He wore the same Wranglers, but in the "husky" size. He always came in red-faced from the playground. He usually sat right in front of me–we were seated alphabetically–and George Watkins sat behind me. I haven’t seen Mardis since graduation; he didn’t show up at the only class reunion I’ve been to. So that makes me wonder if he would come to a nursery reunion. I mean, he spent twelve years with the 1983 graduates of Lake High School and didn’t care enough to come and see us, so he probably wouldn’t be interested in being reunited with people he only spent two or three days with. Last I heard, he has a used car lot between Lake and Forest. I wonder if he’d remember me if I drove up there some time. I could go there and say, "Mardis, since you’re still here in the area and you probably have connections, running this used car lot and all, why don’t you spearhead a nursery reunion effort? We could have it right in there in your office; there probably aren’t more than a handful of us. Who knows? You might even manage a sale or two." I don’t know. Maybe I’ll do it.
It’s back to work tomorrow. I wrote all my students letters last week, asking them to bring in a handmade paper snowflake, an interesting rock, and three facts about penguins. I’m ready to get back at it, but I sure will miss being at home.

When Mama chews gum, it’s always a half-stick of Double Mint. She’s done this for as long as I can remember. A five-stick package of Double Mint lasts her ten days. I chew original flavor Trident–two sticks at a time. Sometimes I chew other flavors, too; if you looked in my purse right now, you’d see a package of Trident original flavor and a package of Trident spearmint. Everyone once in a while, I’ll buy a package of cinnamon-flavored, too, but I don’t do that very often because somehow the cinnamon kind alters the flavor of my food. I don’t know why. It seems like it just kind of stays on my tongue or something.

I just cleaned out my purse, thinking I’d switch purses–from the brown leather to a red fake crocodile one–but I ended up just putting it all back in the brown. Also in my purse, besides the two packs of gum, are three Dove dark chocolates, a tin of Altoids mints (curiously strong), an old billfold with the bills arranged by denomination, a checkbook that needs balancing, two pairs of sunglasses, a set of keys, a new cell phone that I haven’t figured out yet (I got a text message the other day from someone I don’t know saying "I got you, Angel"), two Folgers coffee singles, three or four BoxTops for Education, a bottle of Ginseng Complex with Royal Jelly, three mechanical pencils, an emery board, a tube of Vaseline, a 2-pack of cinnamon Metamucil fiber wafers, a Wal-Mart list, a receipt for a cabin for 2 nights at Roosevelt State Park, a bottle of Visine, and 6 tubes of lipstick in slightly different shades of pink.

So what do you know about me from the contents of my purse? It would make a good writing exercise. Several years ago, I was at some sort of teacher conference in Jackson and a woman named Carol was presenting a workshop, demonstrating some things she did with her gifted students. She had stacks and stacks of shoeboxes she called "midden boxes". Or at least I think that’s what she was saying. It’s an archeological term or something. In the boxes were different personal items–maybe a bottle of aspirin, a comb, a pacifier, a calculator–and the students were to write a profile of the person to whom the items belonged. It’s too advanced for the first graders I teach, but I tried it one year when I taught a writer’s camp and it resulted in some really creative pieces.

I always wonder what people have in their purses or wallets. I do. I wonder other things too, such as how they put their shoes on in the morning (sock-sock-shoe-shoe or sock-shoe-sock-shoe), how they drink their coffee, if they brush before flossing or floss before brushing, if they unpack in hotels (put their underwear in the bureau drawers) or live out of the suitcase, if they slow down or speed up at yellow lights. That kind of thing.

This week has been a looking back time for me, as I’m sure it was for most everybody. Always during the last week of the year, I read Deuteronomy and Esther. I have personal reasons for doing so. This year I read them in a cabin in the woods. Straight through, without having to stop to get something for children, answer the phone, cook a meal. Just straight through. Yesterday I read Martin Luther King’s Letter from a Birmingham Jail . "Mood reading" for a grant I was working on. I think I’ll add it to my year-end reading list. "A time such as this" kind of piece.
I thought about family a lot this week. I almost wrote a piece about the failed coup at the family reunion, but I felt I was making fun of something that meant a lot to some people. The organizers of the coup, at any rate, seemed to find it important. But still, why does the Weems reunion have a president? Why? I mean, this is what we do: we get to Carr Church around 11:00 on the first Sunday in June, just as the congregation is finishing up their worship service. I always go straight to the cemetery and look at the stones, and usually there are several other members of the Weems clan looking as well. Then we’ll go back around front and sort of mingle and visit until it looks like pretty much everybody has come who is coming, and then we’ll go into the church. Lamar, the current president, will say, "Um, who plays piano?", and all the pianists will suddenly get busy tending to their babies or talking to the people in adjoining pews and stuff like that. Finally, someone will slowly make her way to the piano. Then Lamar will ask for someone to lead the hymns. All the singers start to examine their nails or check their wallets to make sure they brought cash for the collection plate or something. Whoever looks up first ends up leading the hymns. So then there’s this consultation between the pianist and the song leader over which hymns to sing. After three or four minutes of this, we sing Blessed Assurance. Every single year. Blessed Assurance. It’s our story. Our song. Our foretaste of glory divine. After that, we might do the first, second, and fourth verses of Amazing Grace. (Now, I absolutely have to stop here to interject something about that first, second, and fourth business. The whole time I was growing up in the Methodist Church and also in the Baptist churches I attended from time to time, we never sang the third verse of any hymn. And this is the thing. The third verse is always the very best one. Check it out. You’ll see.) Anyway, after hymns, the Treasurer gives the financial report and there is some discussion over what to do with the money, but not nearly as much discussion as there was before the old folks died. Back then, things got real heated at times. It’s a lot of money, see. More than you’d think. So then after the money matters, we have family reports. They go down through the different branches of the family, according to age. This is where it always gets funny to me. Uncle Mack’s family will relate all the new degrees received by their children and grandchildren: most of them are doctors, lawyers, deans of schools in prestigious colleges, etc. Same with Aunt Mary Elizabeth’s bunch. That group also likes to give a rundown of all their overseas travel of the previous year: Greece, Israel, Scotland, some countries I’ve never even heard of. Uncle Alvin had one child, and she never comes because she is very heavy into doing yoga seminars all over the country. Aunt Lois’s girls sometimes come, and then we get updates on the accomplishments of their husbands. At least since Biggie died. Before that, we heard about Biggie’s accomplishments, and they were many. She was one of the most talented doctors in Los Angeles, or so I’ve heard. Her name was not Biggie, of course. It was Janette Wilkins. But she was a twin, and her sister was called Bitsy. Bitsy comes to the reunion most years. So anyway, down through until it gets to J.T.’s family. That’s us. It’s pitiful, really. We just all look at each other and shrug and squirm until finally somebody will jump up and report our births and marriages. Now here is the funny thing. The others, all put together, fill only about two-thirds of the left side of the church. We fill up the entire right side, with some of us spilling over to the middle. We are the poor country cousins, and it is quite evident what we spent the previous year (years) doing: reproducing. We multiply.

I’m changing paragraphs because I’ve lost my place. Okay, so after the family reports, Lamar will have a little something special planned, like maybe a slide show of his trip to the family castle in Scotland. It’s called Wemyss or something, I believe. And then he’ll call on someone who has been doing research into the family tree and they’ll stand and tell what they’ve dug up. Then we usually get a report on the Weems House at Millsaps and hear the story yet again of how my great grandfather sold a mule to help build the college, even though he knew none of his children would ever be able to go there, and yet a whole bunch of his children ended up graduating from there and becoming Methodist preachers. And then somebody will say the blessing and we’ll go outside and eat and visit for a couple of hours. (This is the true miracle: that food sits outside in Mississippi summer heat, the stuffed eggs and fried chicken and potato salad and everything, for all that time and I don’t know that anyone has ever gotten salmonella. Miraculous. Think about it.)

Now, back to my original question. Why do we need a president? I guess it goes back to the days when all the old folks served in the state legislature and they just thought they had to have all those offices for the reunion. The elections are very interesting, too. I mean, they follow all those rules about making nominations and seconding them. They make motions about other things, too. Well, last year, there was an attempted coup to overthrow Lamar as president. I do not know why, but it seemed the rebels had their reasons. Lamar was not there and had left someone to reside in his place. He is a past president of the Mississippi Medical Association and had to attend the annual conference or something. Anyway, the attempt kind of fizzled and everybody was uncomfortable afterwards. I don’t know. It seems a shame. And why on earth would anyone care who calls on a pianist and a singer and a pray-er? Beats me.

I was out walking yesterday, and I decided that instead of making resolutions for 2006–the whole year–I’ll make them for January. Then, at the end of January I’ll make them for February, and so on. I think it’s a brilliant idea, really. I’ve made a few, and I think this is going to be an exciting experiment. We’ll see.

Hash

21 This I recall to my mind, therefore have I hope. 22 It is of the LORD'S mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not. 23 They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness. 24 The LORD is my portion, saith my soul; therefore will I hope in him. 25 The LORD is good unto them that wait for him, to the soul that seeketh him. 26 It is good that a man should both hope and quietly wait for the salvation of the LORD. 27 It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth. 28 He sitteth alone and keepeth silence, because he hath borne it upon him. 29 He putteth his mouth in the dust; if so be there may be hope.

I’ve been reading Lamentations every morning this week, just reading the entire short little book straight through in a different translation each day. This morning when I read the above verses I just for some reason thought of Pandora’s box. The hope part, of course, is what made me think of it. So I thought I’d craft a piece about Lamentations and weave in portions of Pandora. But. That’s just how things are with me right now. My notebook is crammed with notes, little things I want to write about here, and that’s all there is. Notes. Notes about Hannah, about Lizzie, about children in my class, about Pittsburgh, about each of the books I’m reading. That’s the problem, I think. I’m reading too many books. I’ve always done that–kept at least six books going at a time. Right now, there’s Lamentations, a novel about a man taking a bicycle trip across the United States in an attempt to come to grips with the loss of his parents, an anthology of the best teen writing of 2005, a book about using poetry to create community, and a book about fighting for intellectual freedom in public schools. What I need is a reading/writing retreat. I need to find someplace to go, where I can take a box of books and a box of notebooks, and read and write. I need that. Because until that happens, I’m going to have all this inside me, this going in six different directions, and no sense of rest or resolution.
So, there will be no Lamentations/Pandora piece today. Just hash. A reflection of my current state of being.

Speaking of reading/writing retreats, Bill is converting to Catholicism. His wife is Catholic, and they had been attending an Episcopal church as a sort of compromise. But she wasn’t happy with that, so he is taking conversion classes. I wish I had talked to him more about his classes while we were in Pittsburgh, but there was just no time. What that has to do with reading/writing retreats is that his wife goes on lots of retreats. Sometimes they are solitary/silence retreats. That is fascinating and very attractive to me. It makes me think of Philip Yancey–when he spent a week or so in a cabin in the Pacific Northwest and read the Bible straight through and saw things he’d never seen before. Anyway, Bill is taking these classes. He told us this when we were at an oyster bar we’d walked around in circles trying to find, in 20 degree weather, gale-force winds. So I was still pretty much frozen and couldn’t really find it in me to enter the conversation. Even when the whole discussion they were having about genre turned to an argument over the Left Behind book Lisa is reading right now. The Catholics, Methodists, and Episcopalians at the table wanted to label it fantasy; Lisa held out for another genre, I can’t remember what. It is always interesting to me, being with this wide array of backgrounds. Patricia, Leslyn, and now Bill are Catholics. Rachel is Episcopalian. Lisa is Baptist. What am I? Friday night at Morton’s (a famous Pittsburgh establishment with no prices on the menu) I tried to talk to Patricia about the Catholic Bible, but she said she’s never read it, so we didn’t get very far. The food at Morton’s was almost too good, if that makes sense. Every course was a meal in itself, and by the time dessert came, we were almost too full to enjoy it. But only almost. All the food we had in Pittsburgh was good. We’d been told we could not leave the city with having pierogies and Yuengling. Both were excellent. So I’ve had to practically fast since I’ve been home, and I’m finally starting to feel somewhat normal again.

Back to the retreat thing. I’ve been thinking about it, and even though I’d really like to go on a solitary-all-by-myself trip, I also think it would be very edifying to go with a group of people. We could all read and write and come together every five or six hours to have a meal and share. Maybe at a state park. So I’m going to give some thought to who I’d like to do that with. You’d really need a broad range of people to make it work. Obviously people who read. I’m just thinking out loud, but maybe we could read through the Bible. Divide it up into books among the participants, then come together to share insights. Anyway, it’s an idea. Maybe over Christmas break. It’d be a good way to end the year.

Which leads me to another question I wrote in my notebook: If I were stuck in an elevator, who would I want to be stuck with? Usually every year during Thanksgiving week I make a list of the people in my life for whom I am most thankful, and I try to drop them a line and tell them so. I didn’t do that this year. Not that it’s too late or anything, but I just can’t get my thoughts together. I think I would like to be stuck in an elevator with all of those people. Because I am beginning to really understand that I don’t spend enough time with the people who mean the most to me. I take them for granted. I don’t treasure them. I mean I do. Privately. But I don’t tell them so often enough. Would I tell them if I were stuck in an elevator with them, away from the distractions of daily living? Would I? Or would I say, "Hey, I saw the funniest e-card that had a turkey singing I Will Survive?" You never know until it happens, I guess. Maybe I would start with the turkey, and then say "So, tell me about your relationship with God." Maybe.

Bill was stuck for 40 minutes in a small elevator at the Omni with 12 other people. He is good at picking out places to eat, and he called from his room to tell us he’d be right down and then we waited 40 minutes, wondering where he was. When he came in, he was in a state. Apparently the experience was not a good one, not like my own imagined elevator retreat. He’d just been to a special session that Mary Kaye had done on writing about Katrina, had seen her slides of the devastation in Bay St. Louis, had heard her share her experiences, and then right after that he got on the elevator and was stuck with people who are not made of the same stuff as we are. He said the more they whined and complained, the madder he got at them. He wanted to scream at them, "This is nothing, people! I just left a room full of people who are still looking for family heirlooms two blocks away from the concrete slabs on which their houses used to sit. If you’d ever sat in a gas line for five hours, or waited two hours every single day for a tiny bag of ice, you’d know this is just a blip on the screen. Shut the hell up." While I kind of understand where he was coming from, still I think of the Laura/Caller syndrome. I mean, here are these people right there in front of you (and behind you, and all jammed up against you) who are agitated and uncomfortable and they’ve never been through Katrina. Never been "wiped clean" of their minor irritations, and so they can’t be expected to not need comfort. Love the ones you’re with, is what I think. Take all those horrible experiences you’ve been through and allow them to make you more compassionate toward others, more patient with their narrow comfort zones. Katrina definitely changed us. We are not who we once were. We’re just not. My friend Katherine from Long Beach was in my first session Thursday morning. I saw her across the room early on, then during the break we talked and finished out the second part of the session sitting next to one another. When people would see our name tags, they’d ask us about Katrina, about how it was, how it still is. After the session, Katherine told me she is uncomfortable talking about it with people who didn’t go through it. That it feels right to discuss it with survivors, but now with outsiders. I know what she means. It is sacred somehow. Maybe we’re just not ready, and maybe we will never be. Mary Kaye told me the name Katrina means to wipe clean. I looked it up and found that it means "pure". And yes, I think there is a purity that came to us from having been through it. It just sort of swept away all the things that were extraneous, that didn’t matter. And the things that do matter–people and relationships–were left. I can’t even talk about it here, it seems, even though a total of two people have this link. What I know is that the lessons I learned, about loving and valuing people, were hard and lasting lessons. Dreams about heads in jars and other things perhaps didn’t make those lasting impressions.

Having time off always makes me want more. Yesterday the girls and I spent the afternoon shopping in Hattiesburg, and then we met Tim for supper at O’Charley’s. I’m eating my leftover Bayou Pasta right now with a glass of ginger ale, and later we’re going shopping again. Hannah and I daydreamed yesterday about quitting my job and homeschooling. She would like that, she says. But I don’t know. I have 19 years in the retirement system and I make $50,000 a year. I could still make money from my side jobs, but not what I make now, of course, working the main job and the side ones too. In Pittsburgh, we learned about some different ways to fund staff development personnel and co-directors. Kim wants to figure out a way to buy two-fifths of my contract from my district. I think even if she can find the twenty thousand, my district is just not that progressive. There’s never been a job-share done there. I can think of only a couple of people I’d even consider sharing a classroom with, and they might just be interested since they both have pre-school age children at home. So then if I worked two or three days a week, and Tim rearranged his schedule to be home more during the week and maybe work on Saturdays, we could probably home-school the girls. Well, this is the kind of stuff that goes through my head all the time, and I always just end up doing the same thing I’ve always done, going to work five days a week, and then working all these outside jobs too because they’re the ones that keep me intellectually stimulated, and we are stretched way too thin. Did I learn anything from Katrina or not? It all makes me tired. This is why I don’t have enough time for reading and writing.

Lizzie seems to be going through a crisis of faith or something. She has so many questions, and then when I answer them, my answers don’t always line up with her experience. She rode home with Tim from Hattiesburg last night and he said she sobbed most of the way home and asked why God doesn’t do what she tells Him to do? She’s told Him over and over that her stomach hurts, and He doesn’t make it better. She has told Him. I think it may be time to read the Narnian chronicles to her. She’s watched The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe, but I think maybe the Horse and His Boy would be good for her right now. He’s not a tame lion; He likes to be asked. I was having my own deep conversation with Hannah; one that ended with me in tears. I don’t know about this teenage thing. Can I do this? I have no choice. Also, Lizzie is going through a very emotional time. She is crying a lot. Last night, we picked up several DVDs to watch and we all watched The Two Brothers together. But only for a little while, because Lizzie couldn’t take it. She could not relax and watch the movie, because of the threats to the lion cubs from the very start of the film. She was building up to a breakdown from the very start, and then when the daddy tiger was shot and the cubs were separated, she was undone. Absolutely undone. She was sitting in my lap and I kept telling her it would all be okay, that people who love one another are never permanently separated, that it’s only temporary, and that they would find one another. I was telling her all these things about the power of love, and she was in convulsions in my lap. Hannah took her back to her bedroom and put on a Strawberry Shortcake movie and the rest of us watched The Two Brothers. Can I do this? I have no choice. I should be able to, really, because Lizzie is exactly like me. I come undone over separation, too. Sometimes, often really, I wonder why, of all the mothers in the world, my children had to get stuck with me?

There are some other notes in my book that I want to write about, but I guess it’ll have to wait. I want to write about Brett Favre and all he’s done for Katrina victims on the coast, about being attacked by an ironing board at the Omni, about dancing with Dick (or not dancing with Dick) at the jazz fundraising dinner, and about how teachers will walk a mile in the snow to avoid paying cab fare but don’t blink twice over shelling out a couple of hundred dollars at the Heinemann exhibit.

Lonely Night

I may write several times tonight because Tim is out of town and I’m scared slam to death to sleep alone. I’m trying to pretend everyone is not at Sugar Creek without me. They all had a big supper together and are having a grand time right now, finishing up the Saturday night meeting and getting ready for the campfire, and I had boxed macaroni and cheese and watched the Food Network’s All Star Thanksgiving. Emeril made cranberry compote and cornbread; Paula Deen made dressing and mushroom giblet gravy; Giada D Laurentis, who is model thin and has a concave stomach (which just makes me wonder whether or not her food is good) made green beans and parmesan crisps. I missed Rachel Ray. I turned it on just as she was saying ". . .then you serve it up to your family and enjoy", and when I realized I’d missed Rachel, I just about cried right there in front of the TV with my bowl of macaroni-and-cheese-from-a-box. To have to miss Sugar Creek and then miss Rachel Ray, too. It’s just too much. Last night I watched Rachel make Porterhouse steak and mussels at 5:00, then pierogis with kielbasa and sauerkraut at 5:30.

I always take extensive notes and lots of photos at camp meetings and then post them on the forum for the people who couldn’t make it. They call me the photojournalist. Yesterday I considered doing a spoof on myself and taking notes on my weekend, documented with photos of me cooking and getting ready for bed and ironing, etc. , but I couldn’t decide whether that would be funny or just silly, so I didn’t do it.

Hannah did not get to Taylorsville until 10:30 last night after the game in Union, so we were midnight getting to bed, then had to get up early this morning to get to the cheerleader competition. Lizzie and I sat there for three hours watching girls flip and twist and gyrate and build human pyramids. Some of the stuff they do is incredible. Hannah is a flyer on her squad, but her stunts are fairly tame compared to some of the things we saw from the 5A squads today. One girl fell not once but three times, and every single time she bounced right back up with her smile in place and was flying through the air seconds later.

Kim dropped by the school yesterday to bring a copy of last year’s annual report and budget for our writing project site. Next Saturday in Pittsburgh we’re going to write the new one to submit to the national office. She asked if I’ve made myself miserable yet, thinking about the trip. I have. She knows how much I miss Tim and the girls, and that I don’t sleep when I’m away from them. So why are we staying two extra days to have a site meeting and write the annual report? Why? And I just check the weather forecast for Pittsburgh. It looks as if we’ll be flying into snow showers Wednesday. Great. It’s 80 degrees here. I did the only thing I could do, of course. I went shopping this afternoon and bought a bunch of new clothes to take. I could get out last year’s winter clothes, but that’d be a lot of trouble, and this way I took my mind off what they were doing at Sugar Creek. Saturday afternoons are always fun there. Anyway, I got a great black velvet jacket with a tie at the waist, a green velvet (I just realized they’re both velvet) pea coat, a green shirt to go under the coat, a pair of brown trousers, and a really great pair of jeans that, according to Hannah "make your behind look cute, Mama". So I don’t know if I’ll keep those or not. Oh, and a pair of really comfortable flannel pajamas. I picked out a new winter coat and carried it around the store for a while, but then I put it back because I already have about 15 winter coats and it rarely ever gets coat weather here. When we got home, Hannah coordinated all the outfits for my trip and I tried them all on for her approval. She has a good eye for fashion. But still, I’m miserable about leaving.

I can’t believe the girls are already asleep, but it was a hard day on all of us. Lots of driving and sitting and waiting, and shopping. Lizzie watched a movie about Jonah when we came home, and she came back here and told me there was a lady in Ninevah who was eating too much and not sharing her food with her neighbors. That made a big impression on her, it seems. I’m glad it did. Lizzie is getting to the age that she has lots of questions about the Bible. She is fascinated by the goings-on in Eden, and troubled by the disobedience that led to Adam and Eve getting "thrown out" of the garden. "Why’d they get thrown out, Mama?" She asks me over and over. She hopes I’ll change my answer, I think.

I just realized I don’t really have anything to write about tonight. I’m just writing because I’m missing Tim so much, and I’m trying to put off getting into an empty bed. I've been reading a lot at the calm and a little at the zolaboard. It's funny how I can go to the RSS feed and read just a snippet of a calm post, and I know exactly who posted it. I am amazing in that way. I saw that someone had posted a Johnny Cash song, I Walk the Line, and I knew it was James. I knew it. I'm thinking about posting Johnny's Matthew 24 song, but I can't figure out if it would be funny or just silly. When did I become afraid to live my life?

Bridge may ice in cold weather

Genesis 2:21 And the LORD God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and he slept: and he took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh instead thereof;
Genesis 15:12 And when the sun was going down, a deep sleep fell upon Abram; and, lo, an horror of great darkness fell upon him.
1 Samuel 26:12 So David took the spear and the cruse of water from Saul's bolster; and they gat them away, and no man saw it, nor knew it, neither awaked: for they were all asleep; because a deep sleep from the LORD was fallen upon them.
Isaiah 29:10 For the LORD hath poured out upon you the spirit of deep sleep, and hath closed your eyes: the prophets and your rulers, the seers hath he covered.
Acts 20:9 And there sat in a window a certain young man named Eutychus, being fallen into a deep sleep: and as Paul was long preaching, he sunk down with sleep, and fell down from the third loft, and was taken up dead.

You never know what might happen when someone goes into a deep sleep, it seems.

I did not sleep at all Thursday night--Lizzie was up all night with an earache. Tim took her to the emergency room, the second time in less than a week, and they gave her a shot, a Tylenol suppository, and some ear drops, all of which barely dulled her pain. Tim stayed home with her Friday and, as the doctor advised, gave her breathing treaments periodically. So I kind of thought I'd sleep really well Friday night, but I didn't. I had the most horrific dream and then couldn't shake it at all, and finally just got on up around 5:00 Saturday morning. I did sleep three hours Saturday afternoon, though, and then again Sunday afternoon after this virus hit me. Hannah had it two days last week, and I thought by Saturday maybe the rest of us were home free, but it hit me hard and I'm still running fever and throwing up water, which is all I've ingested. So, anyway, I don't know what might happen if I were to actually ever go into a deep sleep. I wouldn't want to fall out of a window or anything like that.

I should've named this entry "deep sleep", and I considered it. Had planned to maybe expound on it and share some insights I've had about it, but then it just seemed I wanted to write about a road sign I saw yesterday: Bridge May Ice in Cold Weather. I remember when I was little, that sign used to scare me. We'd go to Forest or Newton and cross these little tiny bridges where that sign was posted, and I'd think it sounded so sinister, and I'd be afraid that one day it would be cold and we'd have to go to the A&P and risk our lives to cross the iced bridges and I'd begin to miss Mama and Angela and Harry because I somehow knew that they would not survive the crossing, only me, and I'd have to walk home the six or seven miles and tell Daddy they'd perished and then the two of us would sit in the rocker, with me on one of Daddy's knees and the other knee, Angela's knee, would be empty and it would be just the two of us, two instead of five, and life would never be the same because of the iced bridge. Never mind that in Central Mississipi the temperature only gets below freezing once or twice a year, and even then maybe only 28 or so and only until the sun comes up. Never mind that. It was one of those irrational fears of childhood. One of those ever-present-just-below-the-surface thoughts that kept you from going into a deep sleep.

So today I'm at home, and I'd thought I could get some sleep, but my stomach won't settle down long enough. I just read back over the last entry, and I did stop before I got too ridiculous. I hope. I'm still upset about not going this weekend, but I'm not blaming anybody or anything. And really, I will need the weekend to get ready for Pittsburgh, to cook and get the girls' things ready and my own things too. And after being sick, and Hannah was sick two days last week, I don't know about going anyway. But. It's Sugar Creek.

I think I'll try again to sleep and if I still can't, I'll get out some winter clothes and put away the summer things. Even though it's 86 degrees and I'd even considered sunbathing.

Conversations

A couple of weeks ago, I spent an hour or so of my Saturday morning in Stein Mart shopping for an outfit to wear to a wedding that afternoon. I didn't find anything, but I did hear a conversation that has somehow managed to burrow its way inside me and every once in a while it'll stir and stretch and change positions, reminding me that it's there before it settles back down.

So this is the way it went: I was in the petite skirt section, wondering whether to go mid-knee length or ankle length, tiered or straight, when I heard a cell phone ring. Not mine, of course, because I have this thing against cell phones and also people who use them in public. At first, I planned to just tune it out and, if the caller got too close to me, give her a few disgusted looks and a snort or two. But this whole conversation was different right from the start. I could hear not only the woman two racks over; I could hear the caller as well. I don't know what kind of phone she had, but it was just kind of strange, hearing both sides of a phone conversation and all. I ditched the skirt hunt and tailed the woman as she moved from skirts to jackets to handbags to belts to jewelry, and what follows is pretty darn close to the exact conversation between the caller and Laura, the shopper.

Laura: Hello?
Caller: Laura? What on earth is wrong with your home phone?
Laura: We still don't have any phone service. Katrina.
Caller: I've been trying all morning to call your house. Is Helen over there this morning?
Laura: Yes.
Caller: I need her. I'm having some people in tonight. I have to talk to her right away.
Laura: Um, I could have her call you when I get home.
Caller: How?
Laura: She can use my cell phone.
Caller: When are you going home? I have to talk to Helen right away. I need a few rooms cleaned and a tray or two. Not dinner, just heavy hors d'ouvres.
Laura: I'll tell her. Listen, while you're on the phone, I've been wanting to ask you about Helen. How do you pay her?
Caller: Laura, that is between me and Helen. It's nobody's business. We have an arrangement. Nobody else should need to know. See, the way we do it is I pay her ten dollars an hour. Most people pay her by the room, but I pay her ten dollars an hour because she does a good job for me. That is between me and Helen and nobody's business. You get your own arrangement. It works for us. How are you, Laura?
Laura: Worn out. We have way too much work.
Caller: Laura, do not complain, do you hear me? You be glad you have a job, Laura. Be glad. There are people who'd give anything in the world to have a job, and you're complaining about yours.
Laura: Well, but it's just that we've been swamped since Katrina and it would be nice to have some rest.
Caller: Laura, there are people who don't even have a house to go home to at night. Have you seen the news? Those people on the coast? They're living in tents and FEMA trailers. How much rest do you think they're getting? Think of that. Those are the people who should be complaining; not people with jobs and houses, Laura.
Laura: I'll tell Helen to call you.
Caller: I just need a few rooms and a couple of trays. Not dinner. Tell her that.
Laura: Talk to you later. Bye.


I was mumbling under my breath, "You're an ingrate, Laura. People are starving in China and I'll bet you ate breakfast this morning, didn't you? You're shopping in Stein Mart and there is no Stein Mart within miles of Bay St. Louis anymore. How could you, Laura?" And then I looked at Laura. She did look tired. Worn. Weary. On the verge of tears. She'd gotten no sympathy at all from Caller, only a reprimand, a calling down, a slap on the hand. She'd been dealt the Whining Complainer card, while Caller played the role of Champion of Katrina Victims on the Gulf Coast. And then I wanted to walk over to where she was looking at reading glasses and say, "Laura. Laura, I know. I know. Hand me the phone, Laura." And then somehow I'd figure out how to find the number of origin of the last incoming call, and I'd dial it and say to Caller: "Caller? I've got something to say to you, and you keep your mouth shut til I'm finished, okay? What is it about you that makes you incapable of having compassion for somebody right under your nose--right at the other end of the line? My friend Laura here just told you she is tired, she needs rest, and what did you say Caller? You said, 'I don't have any compassion for you. My compassion is reserved for other people, people who are not here right now, people who I am not in any danger of actually helping; people I can feel sanctimonious talking about and pointing out their sad plight.' Yes, Caller, that's exactly what you said. Tell me this, Caller. What is the minimum distance from which you can show your fake brand of compassion for people, hmm? One hundred miles? One hundred fifty? You know what you are? You are a cruel person, and not only that, but you are the worst kind of cruel person. You are the kind of cruel person who is cruel under the guise of being compassionate. Why couldn't you say to Laura, 'Laura, you must be exhausted. It sounds as if the hurricane took a big toll on you. You know what? I admire your strength, your work ethic, your stick-to-it-ness. Is there anything I can do for you? You hang in there. I'm pulling for you.' Why, Caller? Why?" And then I would hang up on her and take Laura in my arms and hug her and say, "Laura, I can't tell you how many times I've been on the receiving end of what you just received right here in the middle of the luggage section of Stein Mart. Blow it off, Laura. There's nothing wrong with you. It's not you. And it's not me. It's them. And Laura, don't forget to give Helen that message, okay?"

After I left Stein Mart, I stopped by the bakery and picked up a few things for our weekend guests--a loaf of sundried tomato bread, half a dozen petit fours, coconut macaroons, cheese straws, and white chocolate chunk/walnut cookies. Driving home, I wondered if Laura had given Helen the message yet--if Helen could even now be en route to Caller's. I began to examine the drivers of the cars around me. Is that Helen? Is that? That? I felt an overwhelming urge to find Helen. I needed to find her right away and tell her I knew about her arrangement. And not just me. Me and all the other Saturday morning Stein Mart shoppers. I needed to find Helen and tell her that I knew Caller paid her ten dollars an hour to dust and sweep and make spinach dip and stuff mushrooms. And that if she had any problems, to just keep them to herself and not expect Caller to offer an ear or a shoulder or any other body part than a foot to kick her in the seat of the pants.