Teachers Write, Day Two - Seeing through a child's eyes

Today's assignment is to take an event from childhood and write about it. I chose something that happened to me in elementary school. 

A class at my elementary school...see the doors?! Every classroom had 2 that opened directly outside!

The Errand

I shuffle step across the hot playground back towards Mrs. Sonty's classroom. The sun is reflecting off the classroom doors...most of them anyways...some have been replaced by plexiglass which is all scratched up now from all the taping and untaping of our work on the door.

I'm the messenger because I'm a good kid. Plus my mom works at the school, but she's in the special education classroom so I'll never have her as a teacher. Fine by me. I get to grade papers for her in the afternoon sometimes and the work they do in there sure looks fun. Not like the purple-ink timed math tests we take in regular third grade.

I avoid the largest cracks in the pavement to save my mother from back aches. I'm a good kid.

The playground between the third grade wing and library wing is the largest at our school. We're lucky because we have three playgrounds and get two recesses a day. This playground is empty right now though so I'm crunching across the gravelly parts of the playground near the hopscotch grid alone.

I'm not excited to get back to class even though it is hot outside. CRACK!

A door flies open and Mrs. Sonty instantly focuses on me. Panic hits my stomach as I put the sharp sound of a rock hitting glass together with where I am and where my feet are and what has happened. It was an accident! I am a good kid.

She is not happy. Brows furrowed behind big glasses. She is as surprised as I am.

I can't exactly say it wasn't me. It was. But it was an accident. Absent-minded feet shuffling across a gravelly playground. If only my feet had the kind of talent that could shoot a rock with dead true accuracy into a classroom door....but they don't. I can barely even kick a giant playground ball when it's rolling directly at my foot.

We trudge into the classroom together. Steaming mad teacher, remorseful good kid. I don't think I convinced her.

Teachers Write Day One! You Come, Too.

This is the first day of Teachers Write. I participated whole-heartedly a couple years ago and then I enrolled in an EDD program so last summer was consumed by professional reading and writing leaving little time for fun stuff. This summer I have completed my coursework and the first three chapters of my dissertation. I am in limbo for the moment between the rock of my paper and the hard place of editing to satisfy my committee. I can't think of a better release than to participate in Teachers Write. 

Today's assignment is to describe where you are...and then describe it again focusing on different senses. I like this assignment. I think it's the same or similar as one a couple years ago, but what great practice! I can see a definite difference between version 1 which I wrote off the top of my head and version 2 which I wrote focusing on one sense at a time. I think the two could be meshed together to form a great intro to a book on how to not finish a dissertation. ;)

Version 1:

Sitting in bed, crossed legs, crumpled blankets. TV is on, but just background noise...like the other tv in the den, also background noise. Dusk is falling behind the sheers over the blinds. If I listen really hard I can hear the cicadas and crickets urging the moon to come out. My phone vibrates, calling my attention away in yet another direction. I am beginning one assignment only to ignore another. My dissertation awaits...

Version 2: 

The gunshot battle on the television reflects the inner battle between sitting in my bed and working on my dissertation. The rat-at-tat-tat of automatic weapons equivalent to the war I wage on myself everyday that I don't work on it. Dramatic music crescendos, but it doesn't rouse me from my bed. Rumpled, slept-in sheets on a casually made bed keep me here. My fingers find the keys effortlessly as I work, but avoid work. The dim light of my nightstand is depressing and mingles with the fading light creeping in from the double-covered windows. I reach mindlessly for my wine glass not really savoring the last few drops of semi-chilled white. I will work on this tomorrow.

Unstuck Poem Inspired by Whitman

I am excited to participate in Teachers Write virtual writing camp hosted by author Kate Messner. If you haven't heard about it, check it out! Join in!


Today's Quick Write is an exercise in getting unstuck. Out of the two options, I chose to grab a book to thumb through and let it spark a little writing. I'm still not sold on using an e-reader for everything, but I grabbed mine for this exercise. One of the first books I downloaded is Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass. I opened it and went directly to my favorite part, a section that we dissected in our college American Literature class. 


Lines that stick with me...

• 'And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.'
• 'Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.'
• 'Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.'
• 'I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.'

My 'Unstuck' Poem Inspired by Whitman's Leaves of Grass



'The hum of your valved voice' Whitman once wrote, 
'I loafe and invite my soul'...


And I do.


My head rests on your chest. 
I loaf.
I listen to your heart, your breathing, your deep voice.


I invite your soul. 
'I witness and wait'. 


Breathing in time with one another. 
Loafing and laying and waiting for the other
to make a move, 
to get up and start the day,
to begin the busy-ness of life,
but we don't. 


Enjoying the company of another, 
just being
not one, not the other, but both all at once.


'Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems.'


Enjoying nothingness which is everything.
Inviting the soul
'For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.'

I'll Be Here...Tuesday Quick Write

I am excited to participate in Teachers Write virtual writing camp hosted by author Kate Messner. If you haven't heard about it, check it out! Join in! 


Today's assignment: Flesh out a character. 


The character I chose is a person who works at a store I frequent. I often wonder about this person...


Name (made up of course!): Janice Flounder
Hometown: Flowery Branch, GA
Physical characteristics: Average everything...maybe a little on the heavy side, but nothing a little diet and exercise couldn't take care of. Unremarkable brown curly hair that is worn shoulder length and with lots of product to keep the curls under control. Freckles, she hates them, but no make-up - ever! Also no boobs, those are kept safely tucked away under double sports bras. When she moved from middle school to high school she insisted people call her J instead of girly 'Janice'. It's not so much that she's a lesbian or wants to be a boy. She just wants to be...neutral.
External song: World Falls by the Indigo Girls
Internal song: Patience by Guns N' Roses


My earliest memories are of riding along in my older cousin's Trans Am. He listened to GNR nonstop one summer. Most of it was okay, but the song I liked best was Patience. Something about the line "take it slow, it'll work itself out right"....spoke to me. 


I knew if I could just make it through middle school and then finish high school I could get on with my life. It wasn't that I didn't like school. It was okay. Mostly what I didn't like was having to fit into people's expectations of what I should be like.


Throughout elementary school I was just a kid. People said I was a tomboy. I guess I liked boyish things. I certainly didn't want anything to do with my older sister's dolls. I liked playing outside and had a tendency to disappear for hours at a time. I had secret spots where I could sit and think, or rather, not think. I could just hang out without anyone thinking I was being boyish or girlish. 


I realized late in elementary school that my name didn't quite fit. I didn't feel like a "Janice". Really, only teachers and my parents ever called me by my given name anyways. My friends have called me "J" since I can remember. I think my parents were a little surprised when a friend called the house and asked if he could speak to "J", but they didn't flinch. They've kind of been the textbook supportive parents through my whole "finding myself" period. 


My middle and high school years were fairly uneventful for someone like me. It wasn't like the the Lifetime movies with a family in crisis or anything. I just was who I was. Despite growing up in a small town, people seemed to ignore me and my 'issues'. Maybe if I'd grown up in one of those Christian families that went to church every Sunday or if my mom had been into girly-girl things like fluffy dresses and shiny shoes it would have been different. 


I've never kissed a guy or a girl for that matter. Now that I'm an adult I think that's probably a little weird. The opportunity has just never presented itself and honestly I've never been motivated to make it happen. I've read about celibate monks...maybe that's what I am, except I'm not into the Jesus-y thing. I've thought about looking up Buddhism, but it doesn't occur to me in the evenings when I have a little time to do such things. 


My days are pretty much the same. I have my own place and a job that pays the bills. Although I work among the public all day I'm able to remain pretty much invisible. Working with canned goods and boxes of cereal gives me plenty of time to think and be with myself. I know the store like the back of my hand. I may not go out of my way to speak to the customers, but if asked, I will show the way to whatever they've asked for. 


I don't 'see' my future like other people seem to. It's not that I don't have ambitions. I just sort of live life day by day. I get the feeling sometimes that I'm being prepared for something big. I don't know how stocking grocery shelves is preparing me for whatever it is, but something nags at the back of my brain. Something is coming. I know it like people know that they're going to be teachers or doctors or social workers. 


I'll be here when it's time. 




PS - I have a real life friend named Janice that is absolutely unrelated to this character! Thanks for letting me borrow your name! :)

But, what else is going on?

I am excited to participate in Teachers Write virtual writing camp hosted by author Kate Messner. If you haven't heard about it, check it out! Join in! 


Today's Monday morning warm-up from Jo Knowles was a challenge indeed. Imagine a scene from another character's point of view. Consider what else is involved in the situation. Jo pointed out that there's is always something else going on beyond the obvious. (This is soooo true about her book See You at Harry's which I finished this weekend while traveling. Grab a box of tissues and go read it if you haven't already.)


This post is about a character from a book about the relationship among a group of teachers in a school where standardized testing and a crazy principal are about to push everyone over the edge. I balked at the assignment at first, not knowing where to begin. As I finished, however, I had a much better understanding of  how the 'back story' of characters can really enrich the overall story. I never would've thought to include a side story like this! 


Thanks to Kate Messner  & Jo Knowles for this project!! I get more excited every week at the thought of sharing my writing experiences this summer with my 5th graders this fall!


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Installing a padlock on my youngest son's bedroom was the best idea I've had in a while. For a time it prevented his older brother and older brother's random friends from stealing things. 


"Jaaaaaaaaaaaaaaake!!!" There was a guttural quality to the yell that rattled me out of the dream I was having. 


I awoke to the sounds that only wrestling boys can make and half-tumbled out of bed and down the hall towards the source of the grunts and thuds. Apparently while younger was at a friend's last night, Jake and company decided they needed to get into younger's room. I touched the splintered wood and pushed the bent metal across the carpet towards the wall with my bare foot. Honestly, there's not much real wood in door frames built for today's homes. 


To a kid who keeps his shoes neatly organized by purpose and color, a small discrepancy in their order would have been a big deal. This was well beyond 'Big Deal' level. I stared for a moment into the ransacked bedroom until more grunts and thuds pulled me towards the den.


"Ahem." My voice wasn't awake yet. More tumbling. I moved behind them towards the breakfast bar.


"Boys, please." I tested out my nice mom voice. The boys were a mass of entwined arms and legs pushing as the fight continued. They didn't notice as I circled around them once and headed towards the kitchen doorway.


"HEY! STOP IT!" An almost imperceptible pause in the action as my voice penetrated their primal brains. Jake continued to push against his younger brother who was now sitting across his chest trying to pin Jake's arms to the floor.


Two more steps and I grabbed the closest pan out of the sink and slammed it down on the Formica countertop. (Great...another battle wound in my once proud kitchen.)


The noise seemed to shock the boys back into the real world of our damaged home. Damaged from countless fights like these. Damaged from slamming doors, failed improvement projects, and unauthorized house guests ('strays' as I called them). 


I didn't have time to go through the steps that we'd practiced at our recent family therapy sessions. It was me and a skillet and two sweaty almost men still laying on the floor where they'd been stunned back to reality by more than just the sound of the pan. Stunned by my anger. 


These 'episodes' with the boys were getting worse. Someone was bound to be seriously injured sooner or later. Nevermind the broken noses and hands....those could be repaired with tape and time, but the intensity of the fights were starting to interfere with my sanity and therefore my job. 


There was no time to sort out what had happened in younger's room. Frankly, it didn't matter. His privacy and property had been utterly destroyed over the last few months. 


Jake rolled out from under younger and made his way to the door. I didn't know where he stayed from night to night. My home had become something of a rest area for him and his friends. They'd appear for a day or two and refuel on sugary drinks and junk food and then disappear just as quickly. 


I motioned for younger to lead the way down the hall so that we could get ready for school. "I'll drive you this morning." It was the least I could do since I could no longer protect him from his lost older brother.


I silently prayed on the way to school...please give me guidance....please help me figure out these boys...help me to keep younger safe and sane....help me to fix our home...please please please don't let today be my day for a classroom observation. 


I just wanted to make it to school where I could slip into my classroom, close the door and be with my students. I could focus on these young people who were so much more 'fixable' than the mess I left at home this morning.


Just as I had settled into my writing mini-lesson the door swung slowly open and she came in carrying The Clipboard. I glanced nervously at the clock. Crap. I'm supposed to be already doing calendar by now. Crap. Crap. Crap. And now the all-too-familiar internal struggle. Do I abruptly move on to calendar or stay the course? I mentally tried out my excuses for being off schedule for the follow-up meeting in her office. Not worth it. I instruct the students to return their blank journals to their desks and prepare for calendar.

Neighbors...who wants 'em?

I am excited to participate in Teachers Write virtual writing camp hosted by author Kate Messner. If you haven't heard about it, check it out! Join in! 

Random word generator gave me the word: neighbor


What a loaded word for me. What is a neighbor? The official Merriam-Webster definition: one living or located near another. Well there's my problem. I always thought the definition included something about kindness, common sense, and friendship. 


Observe. To our right is the widow who forcibly removed the family that was involved in the lease-purchase of her home. Wouldn't have really mattered to us except for that family contained our son's best friend. Plus this lady is known to bring lawsuits against anyone who crosses her (I should probably delete this paragraph). We steer clear of her and her 2 yappy dogs (one of which bit me once). 


To our left is basically a vacant home. A couple years ago the owner had to leave for 9 months to work in Afganistan (non-military...I'm not bashing a noble and brave serviceman here). He left his 21 year old son and 19 year old daughter in charge of the home. Suddenly it was as if we were living next door to a nightclub. We frequently called the police due to the noise coming from that house at all hours of the night. When the father finally returned he ended up kicking out his son and the daughter ran off and got married, so now when daddy goes overseas the house is empty. And quiet, thank goodness. 


A few doors down is the home we refer to as "The Orphanage" because there are several children living there with minimal, competent adult supervision. The older ones can sometimes be seen sunbathing on the roof. They raise mastiffs which occasionally escape the cramped back deck where they live and crap and bark. They also enjoy four-wheelers and ride them without helmets or worry through the protected creek that runs behind our neighborhood. 


Across the street is the house that our good friends lived in. After living here almost 5 years I finally got the nerve to take our kids across the street to play with their kids. Soon we were spending Saturdays together, sharing dinners & drinks, and having a fantastic time. Work took them to Texas and they leased their home to another family that I'm sure is lovely, however...


New family across the street began allowing their dachshunds to wander around the neighborhood and use other yards as they saw fit. Of course our lawsuit-happy neighbor marched right over and warned them that she would call animal control. What's worse is that these people have five or six drivers living under one roof and they all have cars that they park. in. the. street. If you're a city-dweller where people always park in the street that's cool, but this is a big ol' neighborhood where everyone has a 2 car garage and nice, long drive way. We also have rules that clearly state 'vehicles shall not be parked on the street overnight'. But whatev....rules schmules.


Sure, there are nice, decent people living on the street. They mow their lawns, go to church, roll out their garbage containers, and go to bed at job-holding hours. But what about neighbors who are also friends? Growing up my parents never had neighbors who were also close friends. Neither did my husband's family. So maybe hubby and I are just not skilled in developing those relationships. 


Now that I've had a taste of it, I want it back. I want to live near people who have children close in age to our children. People who hang out in their yards, grill out on weekends, and enjoy a good adult beverage. People who you can count on to check and make sure you're garage is closed and water your houseplants. 


Or maybe we need to move to a place where we don't have any neighbors at all. I'd prefer no neighbors to bad ones. 


My reflection on this post: This was difficult to write and left me feeling cranky and completely worn out. The writing is passable, but in hammering these feelings out I realized how sad I am about the state of our neighborhood and how trapped we are in this situation. If only we could wave a magic wand and be in the house of our dreams surrounded by friends and family. 

I Creeped Myself Out

I am excited to participate in Teachers Write virtual writing camp hosted by author Kate Messner. If you haven't heard about it, check it out! Join in! 


I am tardy with yesterday's assignment. Clearly I didn't do the work the first week to make a plan to squeeze writing time into my daily summer schedule. 


I've included my one minute list of phrases that describe where I live now as well as the beginning of a story that could be a book. There are many directions this one could go! I love how the final idea popped into my head - it took me by complete surprise. Me? Science fiction? Why not?!!


1 minute Quick Write:


Green grass, lots of trees, blue-blue skies, views of the North Georgia mountains from various spots in town, plenty of fast food restaurants, but also some good local restaurants including our favorite Mexican and pizza places, generally peaceful neighborhood with the occasional redneck escapades, pool with lots of families, lots of grocery stores nearby, racetracks - 2 of them within 10 minutes, nestled between 2 interstates for easy access to Atlanta and points beyond, decent local high schools.




What changes would make this place uninhabitable for me....


At first it was subtle, our class sizes were one or two kids smaller than previous years. Frankly, I thought class shrinkage was limited to the schools that had larger numbers of Hispanic students. In talking to my friends at other less-Hispanic schools, they were indeed losing students as well. In a county our size, losing 1 or 2 students per class was HUGE. Every year a few more teachers were let go. Every year a few more classrooms were used as storage rooms for the extra desks and chairs and tables.


We'd been under watering restrictions for so long no one remembered what it was like to run the hose outside. Hoses dry rotted on their racks beside spigots. Sprinklers collected cob webs in the garage. Some of the younger children had never been in a swimming pool. Hearty, drought-tolerant weeds overtook whole golf courses, never mind what our yards looked like.  


Since we didn't own a boat, we'd never been on the lake frequently. And since we rarely left our end of the county, we didn't frequent bridges to get a really good look at the water level. If we had we would have seen that the lake was nearly gone. We'd heard on the news that the lake was low, but they'd been squawking about it for literally years. 


In the beginning, the people who moved away were just peripheral 'friends'. You know, the kind who you enjoy seeing day to day, but never really get past the 'Good Morning' phase. Over the last month though I'd lost two close acquaintances to sudden moves. First there were three houses for sale on our street, then 5, and next thing you know we were the last ones on a street of 20 houses. It began to creep me out to see those dark windows watching us. 


Our favorite Mexican restaurant closed, followed shortly after by the best pizza place. Panic would well up in the back of my throat when I took time to think about what was happening, but I managed to squash it back down until the day my son showed me the place on his arm.


He was almost 10 years old by this time so I hadn't seen him naked in the bathtub for many years. He quietly called to me from the bathroom. I could tell by his sheepish tone of voice he was struggling. I approached the closed door and tapped lightly with just my fingertips. The boy before me was no longer a little boy, but an almost-teenager, wrapped tightly in his towel. His eyes flashed panic as he pulled his towel back to reveal the backside of his upper arm and what looked to be scales. Honest to goodness, reptilian scales. Growing with his skin. As a part of his own flesh. 

Let it go....

I am excited to participate in Teachers Write virtual writing camp hosted by author Kate Messner. If you haven't heard about it, check it out! Join in! 


Check out Jo Knowles's site for today's mini-lesson.


I've taught for 13 years at 5 different schools and have worked with many amazing teachers, but there are a handful who I remember for reasons other than their happy, helpful attitudes. 


I chose to publish this because I'd bet most of us have worked with this teacher at some point in our careers. Completely frustrating! I've never wanted to 'tattle' on a co-worker, but daggone it if there weren't days when I just wanted to run like a first grader to the principal and unload. 


It is frustrating to work so hard, investing time and energy and thought and money only to have a teammate who seems to just be punching in and out every day without a care in the world. 

So here's my list poem. Many years have passed since working with this person. I'd like to believe that I'm older and wiser now and should I run across a teammate like this in the future I can let the behaviors go rather than taking them to heart as I once did.


At first sight, you might be inclined to think recovering addict,
slacker
Unpressed chinos, sometimes stained, sometimes dirty
XL shirt (also unpressed) swallowing a shortish-L frame
Unshaven always.


I can get past looks, I can forgive poor clothing choices, I can understand a budget that doesn't afford super nice threads,
but what I cannot forgive 
is 
Lackadaisical attitude regarding job duties
Roll in whenever, roll out whenever
The frequent question from students, "Where is Mr. So&So??"
"Wait. You mean he's not in his room??"


Why write plans when the Internet has plans ready and waiting?
Why write sub-plans when your teammates will do it for you?
Teach the Standards? Why bother?
Why bother with any paperwork at all?


And yet, what gets under my skin the most
is that
the
kids
loved
him.
They didn't mind that the nicknames he gave them were downright insulting.
"Chicken-neck" "Lawn mower head" 
They didn't mind that they weren't learning what other students were learning.
They didn't mind that he never took notes in meetings and frequently dropped the ball on assigned duties.
They didn't mind that the classroom walls were bare.


They didn't know any better.
But I did.

Get a Stinkin' Book

I am excited to participate in Teachers Write virtual writing camp hosted by author Kate Messner. If you haven't heard about it, check it out! Join in! 


"Library's closed!" barked the media specialist from inside her dimly lit office. 


"B.b...but my teacher said I have to pick out a book," he hoped to garner a little sympathy. After all his teacher had been hounding him every stinkin' day to find out what he was reading. The media specialist half-heard him and waved him on by, anxious to get back to her phone call.


Truth is he wasn't reading anything. Sure, he carried around a couple different Goosebumps books, but those were just so Teacher would see that he was reading. He'd dutifully open up to a place a little farther into the book every day and then spend the next 30 minutes daydreaming about whatever....sports mostly...and sometimes girls. 


But then his act was revealed. That Teacher carried around her notebook in class and would talk to kids, asking them what they were reading and what page they were on and what they thought about what they were reading. Whatever. So now he had to find a book besides the well-worn, unread Goosebumps books that had been his daydream companions.


He slunk on into the library despite the warning from the media specialist. She was such a dog. All those times the class had visited and he'd only laid eyes on her a couple times and that was to fix the scanner thingy that some kid had accidentally knocked over while trying to check in books.


He got the impression that Teacher was not happy with the barky media specialist either. He'd seen her roll her eyes when the media specialist screeched about using shelf markers or checking out too many books in one week. 


And yet, here he was...alone in the library. How was he supposed to find a stupid book in here? He'd thought there was a system or something he'd heard Teacher mention about finding stuff. She would wander around the library with the students and pick up books here and there to hand to kids. Those nerdy girls were always at her elbow asking nerdy girl questions. It was easy to avoid Teacher in the library. 


Teacher talked about lots of books in class. Sometimes she'd show us the covers and go on and on about how a book was so amazing. She always said, "Read what you LOVE." There was one she talked about a week or so ago that she'd just read. It was about a dog or some dogs in Alaska. The memory was fuzzy, but he tried to recall the details. Seems like the book was about a dog, but the title had another animal in it...wolf? Fox? Yeah...that was it...Something Fox. He'd search for that. It was a thin book which he liked and it was about dogs. Could be worse.


Now, where would Something Fox be in this library? It wasn't a huge library, but it was big enough that he could search unnoticed by Barky in her office. If only she'd actually help him. He knew she'd know. Shoot, maybe she wouldn't. He wasn't sure if she actually read any of those books she protected so fiercely. He'd never heard HER talk about books like she loved them.

You can do it! Hang in there baby! And all that jazz.

I am excited to participate in Teachers Write virtual writing camp hosted by author Kate Messner. If you haven't heard about it, check it out! Join in! 


When do you write? This week's focus for Teachers Write is to really commit to finding time to write for yourself. 


I struggle with this. Reading today's Q & A post on Kate's site reminded me of why it's so difficult to find time. For me I constantly worry if what I'm writing is good enough. Kate pointed out that she plows through her first draft without trying to edit or reread it. The idea is to get it on paper. Even she questions if her work is good enough and she's a published author! So how does this relate to having time?? 


In my mind, if I knew I was writing the next Hunger Games trilogy I suppose that would be motivation to get myself out of bed and pound a few chapters out every morning. Of course I know that's one of my "inner vampires" as Michelle Ward would say. (I have to put a plug in for her every chance I get!) No one knows they're writing the next big thing...well, maybe some do, but J.K. Rowling didn't and Stephanie Meyer didn't and neither did E.L. James. 


I know this in my head and yet I drag. my. feet.

You're gonna eat lightnin' and you're gonna crap thunder!!

So here's my pep talk to myself:


Dear Jennifer,
     You have doubts about your writing. That's okay. The point is to write. Just get up and do it. You won't know what you really have until it's actually on paper. So stop judging yourself and get moving. It's time to do this thing. 
     The last three days you've been excited about writing and managed to crank out nearly an hour a day. Grab that momentum and hang on to it. 
     Remember how you wrote with your first graders this year?? In seven minutes a day you managed to fill 2 notebooks and you didn't even start until January. That's all...SEVEN MINUTES A DAY. Think of what you could do in 15 or 30 or...gasp! 60???
     Do it. It doesn't matter what time of day it is, but you know how you love that early morning quiet in the house?! That's probably the best time for you. Over the next few weeks there will be more alone time because the kids will be at camps. Use that time wisely. This summer is going to be your Summer of Writing. 
     Once school kicks back in you're going to have to grab that morning time or write when your students write. What could be better than for your students to see you struggling and celebrating right along with them?
     You can do it. Stick with it. Hang in there baby and all that jazz. 
      
Love,
Your Butt-Kicking Inner Voice

Used Kitchen, not for sale

I am excited to participate in Teachers Write virtual writing camp hosted by author Kate Messner. If you haven't heard about it, check it out! Join in! 


My Two Minute Description:


My kitchen is my favorite room. Not because it's fancy or well-decorated or even spotless. It's not any of those things. It is a well-used, functional room that happens to allow me to crank out delicious meals for my friends and family. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than feeding my family a home-cooked meal. The green counter tops are rather ugly and worn. The stove is my pride and joy, but it's seen better days. The button that turns the fan on and off is completely gone, the knobs are caked pretty thoroughly with smudges. One day soon I hope to replace our beat up hulking white refrigerator. 




Revision - After relocating w/ my laptop to my kitchen, this is what happened:


The humming dryer in the nearby laundry room causes the floor of my kitchen to vibrate. Pulling that door shut, I can focus on the music. Always music playing here. If there's anything as important to me as food, it's music. It's my lifeblood. This is my domain, this giant kitchen. We may not have known much when we picked out this house (sucky, death slopey back yard, next door neighbors in our laps, master on main bullcrap), but we got ourselves a big ol' family kitchen.


It'd sound fancy if I said it had been preserved in its original condition, and that's the truth, pretty much. But fact is, we've been here since this house was born 14 years ago so the original stuff is looking a little worn. There are fingerprints on everything and I can't blame just our kids for that. They've lived here half the time my husband and I have and they can't reach those up high cabinets after all. There are scratches and dents and scuffs and dings. And don't ya know it's because this kitchen is USED. 


I could clean those stove knobs. I know how to soak them in warm, soapy water and make them look like knew. I could finish touching up the paint on the cabinets that have been dinged so many times over the years. I could organize the mess of plastic containers I keep in a basket under the butcher block. I could do lots of things that would change this kitchen, but why would I want to? 


All of those marks are reminders. The chunk out of the floor in front of the stove, for example, that happened when one of our cats got a stove grate stuck on her collar when jumping off the counter top. Ah, Lucy, Lucy, Lucy...she was a dumb, sweet cat. And she damaged our kitchen. 


The dents in the counter top near the sink? That was all me. Trying to remove a very stuck, very hardened candle from it's heavy glass holder I messed up our counter top. Fail. 


This place is the hub of our home. Frequently junked up with detritus from the day, art projects, evidence of snacking, laundry spilling out from the adjacent laundry room. It's not tidy very often, but it's always loved.

Teachers Write! Lesson 1 - Yay!

I am excited to participate in Teachers Write virtual writing camp hosted by author Kate Messner. If you haven't heard about it, check it out! Join in! 


Check out Jo Knowles's site for today's mini-lesson.

My critique...I feel that this prompt opened so many other doors. Instead of just writing about our kitchen I jumped to other related topics finally ending with the family table, which would make a good post in and of itself. I think I could worry over this topic for hours, tweaking & editing, but at this point I'm ready to put it on the back burner and let it simmer a bit. Thanks for reading & feel free to comment!

One of the favorite places in my childhood home was the kitchen. I grew up in a very 70's style tri-level house. The kitchen was the physical and spiritual heart of the home. It opened up to a dining room, front foyer, and stairs to the basement level. It was the sort of floor plan that encouraged frenzied laps around the ground floor. Kitchen, foyer, living room (don't touch anything here), dining room (mind the plastic runner), kitchen, foyer, living room (don't touch anything here), dining room (mind the plastic runner)...repeat indefinitely.


True to the times it was all dark wood and mustard yellow accents. The carpet (yes, carpet in the kitchen) was a rug-burn-inducing, yellow and brown diamond patterned, short pile.


Not unlike this....



The kitchen was relatively small, but held a large round table, four giant colonial style chairs, and a hulking butcher block where we proudly displayed our very first microwave back in 1981.


I loved our home. I thought it was pretty nice, even fancy in some places. The kitchen, however, was not one of those places. There was that one drawer that you had to yank open and then do a full body check to get it closed. It was the junk drawer so thankfully we didn't have to employ brute force too often. All the cabinets and drawers had the same little knob which I discovered made the perfect bottle cap opener...until I broke one. It was cool while it lasted though. You could wedge your 16 oz Pepsi under a cabinet knob and then slam your hand on the top of the bottle and voila! 


As far back as I can remember my dad loved to cook. He didn't do the bulk of the cooking, but he'd get hooked on one thing, master it, and move on to the next one thing. The first of these I can recall are his perfect milkshakes. Frequently after the dinner dishes were loaded into the mustard yellow dishwasher, he'd fire up the blender and turn out a perfect milkshake served in a tall, blue cup WITH a straw of course. Next came chocolate chip cookies. He made these almost weekly until the recipe was perfect. He'd let the butter and eggs warm up to just the right temperature before whipping them with sugar. He always added extra pecans and cooked them to perfection - not chewy, but not too crispy either. It didn't matter that the kitchen had barely 2 feet of counter space or that the oven didn't exactly cook at the temperature you set it for. Other food projects included scrambled cheese eggs, biscuits, butter pecan ice cream, country ham, mashed potatoes, roast turkey, barbecue pork, and the list goes on and on and into our next kitchen when we moved in 1988. Despite its compactness, that first childhood kitchen was a gourmet test kitchen.


My dad ran a grocery store and often worked through the dinner hour. My mom handled most of the dinners and would make a plate that we'd deliver to my dad in his little raised office at the front of the store. I remember being so proud to carry that homemade dinner dish carefully through the automatic doors, past the tut-tutting old lady cashiers, and up the three steps to his desk.


My mom was a teacher so her summers unfolded much like mine do now. Settle into a routine with the kids at home. Breakfast cereals, sandwich lunches or (JOY!) Spaghetti-o's, and then family dinners. Occasionally though, we'd get to play 'restaurant'. Mom would write out a menu of the items available for lunch and then we'd set the table and pretend that we were at a real restaurant. She would take my order on a little notepad and then whip up whatever it was I'd ordered (usually Spaghetti-o's, lucky her). 


Spending hours watching and helping my parents in the kitchen made me eager to learn too. I made my first scrambled eggs, my first hot dog, my first hot chocolate, my first can of Spaghetti-o's, and my first Kool-aid in that kitchen. I loved to make potholders and back in the day we used 100% cotton loops which I discovered would catch fire if you gingerly touch one of the hot stove element with them. I never actually started a fire, but was fascinated by getting a corner of the potholder to smolder a little. 


Most of all our kitchen was love. So many birthdays, holidays, and just plain ol' every days were spent there, gathered around the clunky round table. I recently donated that precious family table and chairs to a family that our school counselor was helping to get on their feet. The mom pulled up in a beat up pick up truck and two young, ragged boys tumbled out to help her load the table and chairs. As she and the boys lifted it into the back of the truck I told her that she was getting some good karma in that piece of furniture. Many meals and much love had been shared over it's heat-proof, laminated wood top.