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Outside

Over the past year I have been trying to gather and write stories from my childhood. I found that the more I remembered, the more I realized that most of my significant memories are of being outside. I’m so grateful to have grown up in a time when play was mostly unsupervised. It was unhurried time. There was plenty of time to explore at the creek or in the woods or to swing on the swingset.

I wrote last week (here) about my grandson falling into the creek. Let me say a little more about that. Three of my grandchildren were walking with me down to the neighborhood park that has a stream flowing through it (Bear Branch Stream which feeds into larger tributaries of the Potomac River). It’s a short walk from my house, but I always feel transported to another time when we reach the park.

It had rained a lot the day before and the ground was muddy, but the sun was out so we went. Maggie asked if she and Johnny could run across the bridge. I knew the stroller wouldn’t go well in the mud, so I said they could go. I stayed with Molly at the swings. It made me so happy to watch them tear off across the bridge and down the path on the other side of the creek. It’s a good path that I know well. I could see Maggie’s long hair flowing behind her as she ran through the trees. Her pink coat made it easy to see where they were.

Molly is at the age where she would be happy to be pushed in a swing for hours. I pushed and pushed. I had my back turned away from the creek for just a few moments. Then I heard, “Grandmaaaaaaa! Johnny’s fell in the creek!” As they ran back from the woods, Johnny had taken a wide turn and slipped off the footbridge. By the time I saw them, he had climbed up the bank and looked afraid that he might be in trouble. He stood still and said nothing. I laughed and assured him he was fine. It was just an “Oops!” I was actually happy for him to have the experience of freedom, even freedom to fall with no harm done.

I guess that’s my wish for all children–to be able to play outside, to experience the natural world, to fall and get up, to get wet sometimes and not be afraid. To look up and notice the bare branches against a winter sky. To smell pine and feel rejuvenated. To hear the Carolina Wren’s sweet song and the chirp of a cardinal. Perhaps then, they will believe that the world is more good than bad.

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Laughter

When my daughter asked if I would watch her children so she and her husband could celebrate 10 years of marriage, I said, “Of course!” But first, I had to take a moment to process that my youngest child has been married for 10 years! I honestly don’t know how time has passed so fast.

My time with her three children was spent playing games, watching a movie, building rooms with blocks to house the collection of animals, and providing lots of snacks. In the afternoon, we took a walk which ended with one slipping into the creek. Thankfully, the temperatures were mild and no one was hurt. Just wet and maybe a little embarrassed. We hurried home to a warm bath.

As I got J warm and dry, he smiled and looked up at me and said, “Grandma, you laugh easily.” I don’t think anyone had ever voiced that observation about me, but it felt very nice coming from the mouth of my shy, almost 6-year old grandson. It must have felt important for him to say.

As Charlie Chaplin is often quoted, “A day without laughter is a day wasted.”

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Probability

I have just finished reading THE PROBABILITY OF EVERYTHING by Sarah Everett. It’s a hard book to discuss without spoiling it for others. But as my friend, Sally, said, “Read it and then we’ll talk!” It may be one of the most powerfully written books I’ve ever read. It centers around a young girl’s relationship with her father. Having had a very close relationship with my dad, I felt a deep connection to this character. From dancing in the kitchen standing on my father’s feet, to gazing at stars together, to concerns about his failing health in later years, I felt like I knew exactly what Kemi felt. This connection is one reason I read–to feel part of the universe of humanity in ways that matter. Kemi loves science and specifically, probability.

In 1941, my father began his training with the FBI. He was fluent in German which was a strong asset at the beginning of World War II. The FBI trained him as a cryptanalyst, or codebreaker, and he was successful in using his knowledge of “codes and ciphers” to translate many intercepted communications into English. This was long before we had computers to assist investigators. The computer was his brain. From this period of his life, he developed a love for probability. While he had a rule that he would never place a bet for more than the cost of a meal, he did occasionally buy a lottery ticket for the fun of “what if the odds would favor me this time?” He spent hours around the kitchen table trying to teach me the basics of probability and strategies for simple code breaking. He may have been discouraged when I didn’t readily catch on or share his passion.

Fast forward to today. I realized that as a reading interventionist, I am like my dad. I think I’ve found the passion for code breaking through reading instruction. I’m teaching my students how to break the code by using patterns and probability with the 26 letters of the alphabet. Word play is a fun kind of exercise in probability. For example, playing Wordle more than 250 times, I had a 98% success rate. If your rate was 100%, I bow to you.

Young readers must become code breakers, too. I know this isn’t all they need, however; they also need a rich exposure to literature that touches their hearts, raises questions, and fosters curiosity. Just as code breaking served a higher purpose in my father’s work, I understand that decoding is not the end goal of reading. I fear that too many educators are forgetting this. In our current climate in elementary school, we are hyper-focused on phonics and related skills which will be meaningless if we don’t also help students WANT to read. Code breaking must serve the higher purpose of connecting us with ideas, wonder, and love for each other.

Read THE PROBABILITY OF EVERYTHING. Then, let’s talk.

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A Walk and a Concern

You could almost feel the electricity and anticipation in the air (or was it hormones?) as the local high school football team returned to school for early morning practice. As I walked around the track, I missed the quiet mornings of my earlier walks this summer, but I recognize the rhythms and patterns that accompany a new school year. Dreams were being born right on that field this very morning.

As I walked, I admired the energy and ability of these young players. I love the beauty of a spiraling pass, a straight kick, and a long run. I’ve even been known to get a lump in my throat when witnessing the effort and athleticism of a player who has worked hard to build his or her body for that one moment in that one game.

The varsity, junior varsity, and freshman teams occupied both ends of the football field and the hockey field adjacent. They huddled, drilled, shouted, and sweat their way through the morning practice. Coaches blew whistles, gave commands, evaluated performance, and watched over this field of boys and a few girls dressed in red and black. On some faces, you could see the happiness of being back with teammates. On other faces you could see fear; on others, you could see toughness, even cockiness, which probably also masked some fear. My heart went out to these young men who are expected to memorize and run plays, expected to be in the right place on the field at just the right second, expected to show no weakness even in the surety they will feel pain.

Sadly, this morning, I heard the head coach humiliate a player with a sneer that has left me angry. I get that coaches need to establish their authority, but why do we continue to support coaches who belittle, swear, and manipulate young people for their own gain? Admittedly, I’m not the most enthusiastic fan of football; some might think I’m too soft. But these are still young people, young players, who are forming their identities, their dreams, and goals. Why the need to crush one so that others step up? I worry about that one who was publicly shamed.

I continued my walk even though I really wanted to voice my concern. Here, I’m voicing my concern.

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Language Fascination

Yesterday I embarked on my yearlong quest to battle the mountains of paper in my basement. By way of background, my mother never saved anything and lived a clutter-free life. I guess the clutter pendulum swung the other way with me, and now I am faced with boxes and boxes of memorabilia, pictures, children’s art and sweet lovenotes. It doesn’t help that my husband is also prone to save papers. In fact, we have all of our tax returns back to 1976. (That’s a little embarrassing.)

But that’s not the story I’m telling today. My youngest daughter, Jill, was born prematurely and had some developmental delays which we successfully addressed thanks to wonderful OT, PT, and Speech therapists. Their work converted me to early intervention. It was almost magical to watch how their expertise helped shape my daughter’s brain-body connection.

Our family stories now include many anecdotes of the “use and confuse” stage of Jill’s language development which re-ignited my fascination with language. I had remembered a few of these anecdotes, but yesterday while I sorted papers, I found one that I had forgotten.

One day, while Jill watched “Fantasia” (she LOVED that movie), she said, “Mom, come look at the fairy dragons!” Fairy dragons. What could she mean? When I went to check, there were dragonflies on the screen. Jill’s naming of things often involved word parts, but also a little creative twist that made it so interesting.

Another time, there were whirlybirds or helicopters from our maple tree stuck on the car window. Some were very tiny. Jill was in her car seat and said, “Mommy, I have pelicans, too!” After some thought, I realized she had put together the idea of bird in whirlybird with the word part “heli-” in helicopters and produced “pelican.” Our brains are so complex and full of wonder.

Once we had an evergreen bagworm cocoon stuck to the siding on our house. It was up high, almost to the eaves of the roof. It really bothered Jill. One day, when we pulled into the driveway, I parked and turned off the engine. Jill said, “Mommy, you really need to tell Daddy to get that kangaroo off of our house.” It was hard not to laugh, but I chuckled and told her I would and he did, eventually. All I could figure on that one was she remembered the /k/ sound started the word and it had the /oo/ sound, too. So it came out, “kangaroo.”

I love these little stories, especially now as Jill is a grown woman with three children of her own, because they remind me that having the open mind of a child can enrich our language and our experience of life itself. I love that she noticed the small things, that she trusted me to share them, and that her developing brain gave me a fresh look at the world around me. It was joy.

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Getting Coached

I signed up for life coaching after receiving some great writing coaching from Jen Laffin of TeachWrite (https://www.teachwriteacademy.com/). At the beginning, I didn’t really know how life coaching would help me, but I knew there was work I could do to become the person and writer I want to be. I was willing to try.

The last few days I started to spiral into my annual mid-summer funk. Not pleasant. Typically, my funk accelerates in July when there is more unstructured time than I am used to. I become overwhelmed with the possibilities of what I could accomplish. The long-awaited “free time” in the summer becomes a curse. There are so many possible directions that I end up sitting on the couch with a book or my ball of yarn and knitting needles. Those are not bad ways to spend time, but this is the time of year for. . .

I began to write in my journal to process some of the thoughts that kept swirling around in my head. As I wrote, I saw a familiar pattern. I was engaging in the “luxury of confusion!” If I stayed in a state of indecision, I wouldn’t have to commit to a goal or specific project.

I realized that in my coaching sessions I’d been taught some pretty powerful writing practices to work through times like this. Practices such as writing by hand without any judging or comparing to others, asking a few simple questions:

WHAT IS THE STORY I’M TELLING MYSELF?
WHAT ELSE COULD BE TRUE?
WHAT ADVICE WOULD I GIVE A FRIEND?

Working through thoughts has power to change feelings. I learned that there is a recursive process at work in our brains all the time. We have a thought (which may or may not be true). The thought produces a feeling which leads to an action. The actions we take lead to results. If we don’t like the results, we can work backwards. What result do I want? What actions will that require? What will it feel like? How are the thoughts different when you begin with the end in mind?

These are not new concepts, but practicing them in a focused, intentional way has brought about change. I’m now writing my way out of my mid-summer funk. I know that it will be worth it to put these few words on the page. If only to enjoy the fact of having done it.

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Witness

I’m hearing the word “witness” in many places these days. Sometimes people use it when describing a horror they have witnessed. Other times, it’s the wonder one feels at being able to see something unexpected or extraordinary. It’s the latter experience I will try to share.

I play the organ for my church congregation. The way the chapel is set up, I sit behind the podium where the speakers stand. It was from this vantage point that I was a witness to a tender moment I won’t soon forget.

Mary (name changed) is a tall, slender, 17-year old with cranberry red hair who sings like an angel. She is the middle child in a family with five children. Nathan (name changed), her younger brother, is also a tall, slender 14 or 15-year old. Due to the pandemic, I hadn’t heard them sing in nearly two years. In fact, the last time I heard Nathan sing, he was still a soprano. I was pleasantly surprised now to hear his rich baritone voice.

Sunday, they stood at the podium ready to sing a duet. As they listened to their mother play the introduction, Mary reached for Nathan’s hand. At first, he squirmed his hand away, but when she reached again, he held her hand. The podium hid their hands so the congregation did not see what I saw. Mary and Nathan didn’t let go through all four verses of the song.

As the song progressed, Mary became emotional and was having difficulty singing without crying. She squeezed his hand. With a quick glance, Nathan continued and sang Mary’s solo part giving her time to regain her composure. I learned later that Mary’s grandmother who was in attendance would be starting chemotherapy the next day. Her cancer had returned with a vengeance and her prognosis doesn’t look good. No wonder it was hard for Mary to sing.

This expression of family love touched me deeply. I am grateful to have been a witness.

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Dinner

My husband will eat anything (except scallops=allergy!). He has only one request when I cook. “Make lots of it.” It doesn’t matter what “it” is. He’s eaten my best cooking and my worst cooking. It’s either “good” or I hear, “It was fine, but maybe next time…”

Over nearly 46 years of marriage, my interest and motivation in cooking has gradually diminished. I would rather spend my time doing other things. Without kids at home anymore, I haven’t had much motivation. With the pandemic, we have fallen into survival level food. Take-out has been more frequent (curbside pickup is so tempting), and my cooking has been very basic.

Enter 16-year old granddaughter, Samantha. She is living with us for a few months and being a nanny for our new grandson–her cousin, Peter. This has been a very happy summer for me with her in my home. When I knew she would be coming to stay, my biggest anxiety was dinner.

“I’m going to have to remember how to cook again!” I said to my sister. Daily dinner seemed like a big challenge.

Imagine me going back and forth the five paces between kitchen and dining room as I put plates, forks, salt, and napkins on the table. A big bowl of shrimp pasta salad and a bowl of watermelon chunks were in the center.

“I’m so excited!” she said.

“Why?” (I assumed she would tell me about an activity she was invited to go on.)

“For this salad!”

“Oh! I hope it’s good!”

It really is the little things that matter. I have loved having Samantha with us, and I found that my pleasure in making food has increased. I don’t even mind doing the dishes. And that says a lot.

Stories from my life, Tuesdays and every day in March. Thank you Two Writing Teachers.
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Fireworks

I have been out of the habit of attending the 4th of July fireworks in my town even though we live just up the street from where they are presented. It started when I had a child who could not bear the sensory overload of flashing lights and booming sound. Later, it was I who could not bear the mosquitos and crowds. And then, there was often a grandbaby to stay with that made it easy for me not to go. But this year, on Sunday, the 4th of July, I was coaxed into going.

“It’s just down the street. You can go home if you need to, but come!”

I sat on a neighbor’s concrete driveway and waited until dark. I looked up and saw splendor I had forgotten. The lights, colors, booms, and thrill of not knowing what would come next. I tried to pay attention and be present this year. (We have been through a lot as a nation, and it seems more has been criticized than celebrated.) But, that’s an essay for another time. Instead, here is my poem to try to capture some of the experience I had celebrating our America.

Spirals of fiery light

Shoot toward the stars.

A ball of light bursts into luminescent spokes

Tipped with red, white, and blue.

Colored bits of light fall like confetti and disappear,

Leaving spider veins of smoke etched on the night sky.

Then, flash!

A ball of light surges upward again and again,

Erupting to rain fronds of sparkling weeping willow boughs.

Glittered fire-anemones briefly kiss the sky

Like celestial Queen Anne’s Lace.

It’s a wonder to consider

what gave man the desire to send earthly joy to

the glories of the night sky–even if just for a moment.

“We seek the fire of the spark that is already within us.” ― Kamand Kojouri
Writing slices of life Tuesdays and each day in March. Thank you twowritingteachers.org
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Curmudgeon

Lucy Calkins sometimes tells students that they can write like a curmudgeon or write like the words are gold. Today, I had my second tutoring session with a student who is determined to be a curmudgeon. He says that he hates writing because he doesn’t like to share. Well, in a 1:1 setting, would sharing be so bad?

First tutoring session:

Me: So, T—, what did your mom tell you about why we are working together?

T—: (with a sneer) Nothing.

Me: What did she tell you about the work we did together last week?

T—: (with a louder sneer) Nothing.

I proceeded to point out many of the strengths I observed while doing initial assessments. And then, I mentioned that his mom and I felt that perhaps some work on writing would be fun. This student was on a computer for virtual school all year. He hasn’t had a real workshop experience in over a year. He’s an avid reader. He’s a great speller, and he has made it clear that he’s not buying what I’m hoping to sell.

Trying not to be intimidated by an 8-year old, I pressed on. In my teaching, I have often used the 5-minute quick write to build a bank of writing and to build writing stamina. I thought this would be an easy invitation to writing with the open topic, “Summer.” We talked a few minutes to prime the pump and I set the timer. We began and I wrote, too.

My writing took me back to fun summer evenings of my childhood and memories of neighborhood kids gathered for games of Hide-and-Seek, S.P.U.D., and jump rope. I could hear the ringing bells of the “Popsicle Man,” and could feel the stickiness of popsicles dripping down my arm. I remembered the bikes, wagons, and roller skates we shared and being chased by neighborhood dogs. I loved getting to stay outside until dark when it might be cool enough in our un-airconditioned house to sleep. It all came back in just 5 short minutes of writing. “I love writing,” I thought to myself.

T— wrote 38 words in the 5 minutes. He wrote something to the effect that summer should be for fun and other activities and “not this annoying writing thingy my mom is making me do.” I thanked him for his honesty, even though inside, I was wondering, “Am I annoying?”

Second tutoring session:

I hoped our second session would improve. Today, I gave him a choice of prompts for the quick write. (Choice is motivating, right?) He checked the box. Again, I wrote, hoping to model what “write the whole time” looks like. He wrote 9 words, 7 of which were the words of the prompt. My heart sank as I wondered what would help turn this relationship in a more positive direction. One voice tells me to discontinue–it’s been a hard year and this student will be successful when he returns to school. Another voice asks, could some writing support now help him be more confident when he returns to school?

What would you do?