The Possibilities are Endless

One of my students loves cows.

In fact, she announced at morning meeting that she is hoping for a cow for her birthday next week. Mindful of the suburban enclave in which we attend school and reside, I can surmise with a degree of certitude that she is unlikely to get the cow. Yet, she remains exuberantly hopeful – and I can’t blame her. She is seven; her reasoning is sound and makes perfect sense.

A pet cow would eliminate having to mow the lawn and buy milk, and according to her generous estimate, their fenced in yard will provide ample acreage for a bovine pet to roam at leisure – rarely do cows crash fences into adjoining neighborly properties. When the weather gets cold or rainy, she will merely lead it to the garage for shelter and safe-keeping.

I know exactly where she is coming from because I was her once.

My passion was horses, and I was desperate to have one of my own. I had done everything that one could possibly do in a suburban family of eight with horses except to invest in ownership, and the time had come for that to change. It was time to take the plunge and make that commitment, I reasoned to myself. After all, I had done the preliminary research. I spent captivating hours reading about the equine species; Margaret Henry had kept me steeped in fodder for years: Justin Morgan Had a Horse, Misty of Chincoteague, and Album of Horses, were biblical in their relevance to my life at the time. I knew all of the famous Triple Crown winners, and the years they won, I could identify every breed, knew what it was used for, and the differences between each. I spent hours upon hours drawing horses. To this day, I can still draw a darn good horse without much effort at all. My ability stemmed from knowing the anatomy of horses so well. As I drew, my brain named the parts: fetlock, cannon, withers, crest, poll. I even accompanied my best friend to her weekly riding lessons, and finagled my way into a stable-hand job for the hour that she was riding each week.

It was clear to me that the only thing left was to actually purchase a horse.

Before approaching my parents about this proposal, I carefully inspected my plan for the customary loopholes and arguments that they would undoubtedly unearth. I prepared clever solutions for each. I was fairly certain that my strategy was without flaws.

My first step was to ask for a ten year advance on my allowance. At a dollar a week, this would provide me with enough cash to buy a wizened old gelding who had been put out to pasture. After all, I was going for a gentle family pet, not a sleek breeder stallion. As for stabling, I couldn’t remember the last time we had squeezed our car in the over-flowing garage, so that was the obvious place for the new steed (after we got rid of the junk). I was more than willing to clean out the garage and do other odd jobs around the house to earn money to pay for its food. And luckily, we lived on a dead-end street with only nine houses. Surely I could cash in on our friendly relations with the neighbors and ask them to turn a blind eye while I rode the trotter up and down the street after school.

It seemed fool-proof.

I still remember the scene as it unfolded at the kitchen table after dinner. I astutely planned it so that my parents were both well-fed and relaxed. I dawdled with dishes until my siblings left the room and then launched my proposition.

As you might have imagined, my grand assertion did not go as swimmingly as I would have liked. In hindsight, my strategy was all wrong; I should never have led off with the ten-year advance on my allowance. It went horribly downhill from that leadoff request, and I never regained solid footing.

At tomorrow’s morning meeting we will find out if there is a new bovine companion in my student’s life. I hope that she has better luck than I did convincing her family of the urgency and feasibility of her dream. Even if it doesn’t come to fruition, it is wonderfully magical to be in her shoes. To be steeped in the possibilities of a world without boundaries when you are seven, or eight, or ten, or even older.

I also know someone who wants to be a deer when she grows up.

Best Colors

The best red is our new washable livingroom rug.

The best orange is my husband’s quarter zip sweater (in his favorite color) that he wears a lot.

The best yellow is our house of eighteen years.

The best blue is the memory of my Mom’s eyes.

The best green is soon-to-be leaves on awakening trees.

The best Violet is my niece by that name.

The best pink is Peppermint Stick ice cream on a sugar cone.

The best white is the hammock chair that hangs under the silver maple all summer.

The best black is a tiny box that holds my hearing aides.

The best brown is our good buddy Oliver – who is mostly brown and softly furry.

The best tan is the warm sandy beach at the Jersey shore – under my feet.

The best gray is our bedroom – painted by us last summer.

The best color mix is the unlikely rainbow on the first anniversary of losing my mom.

The best colors are everywhere because they are in the things I love.

Beaming

Little darling, it’s been a long cold lonely winter

Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been here

Here comes the sun

And I say it’s all right.

Thank you, George Harrison, but in all humility I’d like to modify the last line of your refrain:

And I say – WOOHOOHOO! I wasn’t sure that we’d be coming around again.

It’s more than alright – it’s fantastic!

Let’s call it what it is, folks – it is the best regularly scheduled day of the year.

If you haven’t guessed by now, I joyfully acclaim the start of Daylight Savings Time, which begins 2:00 a.m. Sunday, March 14. In other words – tonight.

Tonight.

On this eve we put the clocks ahead one hour, pushing daylight sixty minutes into the darkness.

What could be better, I ask you?

Sure, sure, I know. some will lament the loss of an hour of sleep tonight. To those folks I give a resounding, “Pish!” Which basically means, are you kidding me?

Are you honestly – for even one minute – thinking that losing an hour of sleep for one measely night is not worth a whole summer of lingering twilight barbeques, long after dinner walks in the gloaming, and days filled with sunshine that give you that really good kind of tired because you’ve been out in it all day and there’s still more of it leftover feeling? More of it left over to finish it all off with a lavender, pinky orangey sunset sky at 8:30 p.m.?

No? Still not worth it?

Well, don’t even talk to me, then! We’re not even on the same planet.

To sit in the summer sun is to be a sponge soaking up water. That is honestly how it feels to me – like I can’t get enough of it. Sure, I sit under a UV floor lamp in the dark months to bridge the gap, and that helps, but it’s not the same. It’s not like sitting on the front steps with evening light still falling on you, warming you while you have those last few sips of coffee (or maybe a glass of wine), blissfully assimilating radiant solar power into your being.

I know that not everyone feels this way about the sun. My husband revels in cloudy days and cool weather. He seeks the understories of trees, large overhangs, and wide-brimmed Tilley hats – going out of his way to reside in shadowy fringes to AVOID the sun at all cost (he is Canadian, so that helps to explain some of his idiosyncrasies). From our polar extremes on this issue we somehow meet in the middle and strike a balance that works. Our perrenial summer challenge is to find a spot on the patio where he can be in the shade and I can be in the sun while still sitting together. No kidding.

Yes, I am well aware that these contrary people exist, but I do not understand them, and today I am not even thinking about you-who-are-in-this-group-of-shade-mongers because today is OUR day. To those who are with me on this, to those of you who turn your face to that golden orb in a sea of blue and mark this as the best day, I revel with you.

We’ve come around again, and

I’m beaming.

The Washing of the Mask

Call me crazy, but I enjoy the ritual of washing my mask. Scrubbing my cover-up in a sinkful of hot soapy water each evening offers a few minutes to mull over the day, and do one small thing to set myself up for a good start tomorrow . No matter how tired I am, it’s something I don’t mind doing. I kind of revel in it.

In its own way, the washing of the mask has become a reassuring reminder that –

I am still alive.

I am healthy.

I am going to need a clean mask tomorrow because I still have a good job to go to.

It has been instrumental in gifting me my healthiest winter ever.

It is a tolerable accoutrement that I don’t mind wearing nearly as much as I used to.

I was worried about these new accessories. As primary grade teachers, we were all worried about them. The children were going to play with them, refuse to wear them, or be distracted by them. In reality, other than the occasional “Please pull your mask up,” the whole thing has been a non-issue.

No different than a pair of eye glasses or a hairband, really.

So, these days, we have one more thing to do each morning. We choose a face covering to wear. This is important, because – at least in the primary grades – a cheerful mask can make a reality that is a little scary a little less so.

Be it polka-dots, camo, floral, or paisley, wear it in style, and remember to wash it tonight.

All You Need

Joe and Rudy walked our neighborhood most afternoons. Joe usually in flannel and tweed, his stooped progress steadied with help of a cane. Rudy at his feet taking ten steps to Joe’s one, matching the measured cadence in spritely rhythm; the perennial energy of a Yorkie belying his age. Truth be told, I don’t know exactly how old either of them was, but guessed they had spent the better part of the last score of years together.

The time of Joe and Rudy was about the time we got Oliver. From the beginning, our daily forays with Ollie mimicked Joe and Rudy’s path. I sometimes watched the two elders from behind, the haphazard ball of puppyhood at the end of my leash a glaring contrast to their dignified roving. I wondered if there would ever be a day when we would forego the leash like Rudy and Joe. Rudy’s only priority was to be near Joe, period. When Joe stopped, so did Rudy, and when he resumed, Rudy did likewise, always untethered but never more than a snuffle away. Such single-minded loyalty in a dog was impressive to me, and I wondered what it took to get to that point, where a walk around the village in each other’s good company was of singular enjoyment and the only goal.

Years have passed since then, and Ollie is nearly twelve. We’ve been on scads of adventures in countless places, but our walks around the neighborhood remain mostly unchanged. Same path, same general time of day and twice on most. Our conservative calculations log us close to 3,000 miles around the circuit in Ollie’s lifetime, and we’re still adding to that number – walking Joe and Rudy’s way.

And guess what?

We don’t really use the leash anymore.

It seems now, that a walk in each other’s good company is all we need.

Go Mute Yourself

Mute yourself!

Unmute yourself!

Click out and

Click back in!

Pull your mask up!

Please sanitize.

I need your link.

Do you have my link?

Attach the link.

Just click the link

and sanitize!

Are we synchronous?

Asynchronous.

What’s the difference?

Just sanitize.

Is this my class?

Where’s my class?

Am I in the right class?

I’ve lost my class.

But did you sanitize?

Does this sound familiar to you? A year ago we did not use this language. A year we did not have this language. A year ago seems oh-so-far away. A year ago we could not have dreamed up this reality. To say that this year is unique is probably a gross understatement. Friday will mark the one year anniversary of our altered reality at school. As a result, this banter has become our ongoing, well-worn vernacular. These exchanges are repeated so often – and we know them so well – we probably mumble them in our sleep. They do make sense in context, but out of context – and sometimes even in the moment – they are really quite hilarious.

So, while we’re still in the fray – a little self-deprecating humor never hurts. Just listen…

I can’t hear you.

Can you hear me now?

I can hear you.

Am I frozen?

You’re frozen.

Am I frozen now?

You’re still frozen.

Always sanitize.

Am I virtual or in person?

Is this A or B?

I can’t see you.

Can you see me now?

Please turn your camera on.

TURN YOUR CAMERA OFF!

Click the link!

That’s the wrong link.

THAT LINK! CLICK IT!

Why not sanitize?

And while we’re at it, do you have your:

doc cam

head phones

ear buds

wipes

divider

face shield

six-foot distancing radar

gator

and mask?

Wonderful!

Thank you for remembering,

One last thing,

Don’t forget to san-

OH, GO MUTE YOURSELF!

Adoration

It is cold and dark but still I step out of the car, drawing my coat tighter around me while crossing the mostly empty parking lot. Ascending three stairs and pulling open the heavy door, I slip inside.

An hour a week, set apart.

Monday nights, although it could be any day or any night – any time at all, really.

Whatever works.

Once inside, a hush envelopes as I exhale into silence. Dimness casts geometry shadows on domino pews edging the aisle to the altar, bathed in light. I pad noiselessly past the other people who stopped here, too.

Maybe for life, for light, for silence, for answers, to speak, to listen.

Who knows why?

There are as many reasons as people.

I slide into a worn pew, soft chanting from somewhere wafts around me and I settle onto the kneeler. Before me is the monstrance – haloed in light and just

perfectly still, perfectly quiet, perfectly there

for you who might step into that space and wrap its essence around you like a comfortable cloak, and think about what you may.

Planet Random

I think life is like this for people who lose things all the time. Objects come and go, passing in and out of life like a March wind. It might be here, it might be there – it might appear in a sudden gust and then disappear with a whisper and a whoosh, or perhaps linger longer, like a lilting breeze.

I see this unpredictable existence with my students all the time.

Pencils routinely vanish into thin air without anyone ever leaving their seat. No kidding – I’ve looked for them. They’re gone. Homework – and folders containing homework – disappear seemingly at will. Even vocabulary cards that are fastened to folders with steel rings fall off and vanish. Countless glue sticks, markers, erasers, and pairs of scissors are needed for each individual just to make it through a single school year. Nothing lasts – everything is transitory, and should be dispensable – just to save money and frustration. On this arbitrary planet, you learn not to care too much about things because they are just too fickle to invest in.

This is an existence that I am familiar with by proximity only. I rarely lose things. In my world, I put things places, and the next time I look for them, they are still there – in those places. I count on my surroundings to be reliable, and they are. I have expectations of my universe that are routinely met because I live in a world of considerable predictability.

On the flip side, I have close family members who are just as comfortable on Planet Random. Jackets, hats, and gloves are superfluous because they are too hard to keep track of and it’s just easier and less expensive to do without. Besides, it’s not really that cold once you get used to it.

Sunglasses? Meh.

Wallets and cell phones are a frequently-looking-for-them items.

In full disclosure, I did lose something years ago, and it was a biggie. I lost our car keys 300 miles from home on a college visit with our daughter. Naturally it was July 4th weekend, and all garages and mechanics were closed. This necessitated a tearful phone call to my husband who generously and immediately drove the 300 miles to rescue us with the spare set of car keys. I was absolutely shaken to the core.

“Not a big deal at all, Hon”, he counseled, handing me the keys. This was his planet, and things just come and go. It’s just like that here.

I have a son who recently lost his only car key to his only outdated, one-of-a-kind car.

What did he do?

He bought a bike.

The Stories That Grew Me

The Carrot Seed by Ruth Krauss was the first book I remember choosing from a collection and reading by myself. I embrace it with great fondness, and use it frequently with my readers even now. Just last week one of my students read it for the first time by herself, and so that story continues to be relevant for readers today and readers of the future.

Bracketing the Carrot Seed was an early reader called Benjamin in the Woods by Eleanor Clymer. I recall working steadily through its pages with my Dad, and then reading it many times over on my own, exploring forests and encountering woodland creatures with the main character as if it were happening to me. Our son Ben owes his name to that book.

A few years after those seminal samplers, I became the neighborhood voyeur courtesy of Louise Fitzhugh and Harriet the Spy. Notebook in hand, I took to peering from closets to spy on siblings, and hunkering in bushes to peek at neighbors, taking copious notes all the while. I filled pages and pages of composition notebooks just like Harriet, and reveled in my deliciously covert existence, which was not an easy task in a family of eight.

Harriet offered a compelling segue into blissful years solving countless mysteries with the titian-haired sleuth – Nancy Drew. This partnership started unassumingly enough with the purchase of a tattered copy of The Mystery of the Tolling Bell pulled from a cardboard box for $.25 at a neighbor’s garage sale. The adventures that inaugural book spurred were priceless. Sadly, over time – and hours of careful tapping – I was forced to conclude that there were no false walls, revolving bookcases, or loose bricks revealing secret passageways in our suburban New Jersey home, but the mere possibility borne of those pages was captivating.

When I was twelve, I fell desperately in love with Johnny. I am not sure if it is typical to fall in love with a fictional character, but I sure did. S.E. Hinton wrote him off the pages of The Outsiders, and into my heart, and I was smitten. I remember the heartache of that impossible love and devastating tears over his death. The emotion was no less real because it came from a book – my imagination filled in the rest.

Perhaps it was Meg and her brother Charles Wallace that drew me out of the funk. A Wrinkle in Time whisked me off the planet in spine-tingling suspense and I am grateful to L’Engle for an unparalleled dip into science fiction and fantasy. Years later, I find myself still trying to wrap my head around the tangential treasure When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead.

In young adulthood, The Way of the Peaceful Warrior by Dan Millman introduced me to astounding new perspectives I had never encountered, and to this day my copy of Anne Morrow Lindberg’s Gift From the Sea remains a coveted talisman from a friend gone too soon.

A quartet of best bud books that have stayed with me through adulthood remain Last Child In the Woods by Richard Louv, Buffalo for the Broken Heart by Dan O’ Brien, and Survival of the Birch Bark Canoe by John McPhee, and Young Men and Fire by Norman Maclean. It’s a challenge to name just four, but to me, they deserve a secure spot on the shelf.

Even just last month, I found novel kinship in the pages of The Long Loneliness. Rarely have I experienced such instant affinity as I have in getting to know Dorothy Day; not a day goes by when I don’t think about her still. I have an inkling it may be a relationship that bears the test of time.

So, these are (some of) the stories that grew me. They taught me, stretched me, informed me, hid me, transported me, comforted me, and shaped me. I am who I am partly – and maybe largely – because of what I have read.

These are the stories that grew me.

What are yours?

Cookie Moon

There is a customary air of lightness at Friday morning meetings, and yesterday was no exception. Melting snow and a clear blue sky outside added to a collective feeling of relief and release inside the classroom. We began – as always – with updating our wall calendar by adding the date and the weekend dates for good measure, changing the day of the week, noting the year, and announcing all of this loudly (including the Year of the Ox) courtesy of the Calendar Helper.

Next, our Meteorologist gave us an unusually spot on weather report that surprised even him. “Cold, windy, and sunny,” he reported, pointing to said pictures. “Hey! I think I kind of matched it with what’s outside today! he beamed proudly.

This had me wondering about his purpose as weather helper the other four days this week.

“Great job!”

Moving right along brought us to our daily moon watch. I expertly moved our construction paper tracking arrow to the photo of the moon for March 5th. “This is what our moon will look like tonight,” I informed. “We have been saying a waning gibbous moon all week because the moon is showing LESS each night, but it is still ROUNDish in shape, and the word gibbous means round. But, look at this boys and girls!” I went on, “Tonight our moon will look like a half a moon!” I exclaimed.

To make matters a bit more befuddling, I continued. “However, we don’t call it a half moon, we call it a quarter moon.” At this point I deftly decided that my seven-year-olds really did not care to hear my explanation about why a half moon is not called a “half moon,” but a quarter moon. I went on, “So, we say that the moon will be a quarter moon, and given our weather report, we may be lucky enough to see it tonight,” I concluded.

“It’s a cookie moon,” offered a student.

“It’s what?”

“It’s a cookie moon (emphatically)! It doesn’t look like money – money is round! It looks like a cookie – it’s a Black and White cookie”.

I grinned in astonishment.

She was right.

It was a metaphor of astounding beauty, slicing through my confounding gibberish. Even better, it was sheer poetry to a demographic that counts cookies as its own food group.

It is not a quarter moon, it’s a Cookie Moon.

We will remember it – that better way – from now on.