You Know, You Really Made Me Angry

        Years ago, when Christopher Paul Curtis' novel The Watsons Go to Birmingham--1963 had just been published, I went to Missouri's Write to Learn conference and heard him speak.  A veteran of these conferences, I would always get sucked in, and would end up buying a number of books that I would devour.  This year, I swore, would be different.  Having books all over the house already, I made a promise to myself:  I would not buy any books this time...

       Unfortunately, after hearing him read an excerpt of his book at dinner on Friday night, I was compelled to purchase a copy.  It was so funny, and so poignant at the same time, I just had to.  But I was angry.  I was furious with Curtis for making me buy his book.  So I told him...

        The next morning---as always---featured a breakfast buffet, and lo and behold, I happened to be in line right behind Christopher Paul Curtis. Since I don't have a drop-dead gorgeous body or face, I have to make myself memorable in other ways. I chose the "shock" route.

        "You know, you really pissed me off."

         Me, menopausal, frumpy figure and frizzly grayish-brown hair, skin the color of looseleaf notebook paper. Him, much taller and much younger, with dredlocked hair and skin the color of dark caramel. 

          To his credit, he did not react in any visible way, except to ask, "I did?"  (Perhaps he has dealt with a generous helping of crazy white women in the past?) I quickly told him how I planned on not buying any books, but I just had to after listening to his story. We both laughed (perhaps Curtis a bit relieved). Even years later, I hope he took it as it was intended:  a supreme compliment.

         Both of the books I have read of his are well-crafted and have a great story line---a rarity these days.  Many novels have a great plot, and some are honed well, but the story is lacking.  These two books are the "total package."

A Thanksgiving Poem

         Barb Hodges has an acrostic poem on her blog.  It's about Thanksgiving. I am never very good at thinking of beginning lines that begin with the correct letter (they usually sound forced and contrived), and since I almost always try to push the limits, I prefer "staggered acrostic" poems.  Check out Barb's, and then you'll see that she is the light, frivilous and frothy one and I'm the serious, somber and introspective one. (Not!)

Every year I promise That next year,
I will not stuff myself until I have to huff and puff
to zip up my pants following the meal, but alas,
my good intentions turn to jelly (as in jellied cranberry sauce)
when the dishes keep coming out of the kitchen
and get placed on the table---savory stuffing, sweet potatoes
dotted with brown sugar,yeast rolls topped with globs of butter,
(and did I forget to mention the gravy, which is so good,
you want to drink it straight from the gravy boat (if you dare),
and as the finale, chocolate chiffon AND pumpkin pie...
But sadly, since menopause, my metabolism has gone into a coma
and I carry the memory of every holiday with me--my poochy gut
serves as a permanent cellulite "scrapbook,"
reminding me that after fifty, every bite I eat
is like a loyal friend---it sticks around forever...

photo by BarbaraCZ

Reasons to Hate Natalie Goldberg

1.  She is so good at what she does.
2.  She gets it. Day after day, she understands the writing process.
3.  She says it with such clarity and groundedness...

       Of course, I really adore Goldberg's work.  Her book, Writing Down the Bones is like a bible to me.

      This is what she unearthed from a notebook, written on July 27, 1984:

I know this working with my tired, resistant mind is the deepest I'll get on the earth.  Not the joy or ecstasy I feel sometimes or the momentary flashes of enlightenment, but this touching of the nitty gritty of my everyday life and standing in it and continuing to write is what breaks my heart open so deeply to a tenderness and softness toward myself and from that, a glowing compassion for all that is around me.  Not just for the table and Coke in front of me, the paper straw, air conditioner, men crossing the street on this July day in Norfolk, Nebraska, bank digital clock blinking 4:03, my friend writing opposite me, but for the swirling memories and deep longings of our minds and the suffering we work through daily. And it comes from me naturally as I move pen across the page and break down the hard, solid crusts of thought in my own mind and the way I limit myself.

So it is very deep to be a writer. It is the deepest thing I know. And I think, if not this, nothing--it will be my way in the world for the rest of my life. I have to remember this again and again.

               Live deeply...And write.

Gifts From "Above"

           If you occasionally stop in and read one of my posts, you might suspect that the word "above" in quotation marks might mean I am not writing about anything religious or deep. I don't go there...The two gifts I received this week are from above me, but both gift-givers are living, breathing mortals...

          This was mid-quarter progress report week.  All week I have intended to go through stacks of work that have not been graded, so I can grade them and enter them in on the computer.  All week I have arrived home late in the evening, worn out.  I have nodded off (sitting upright on the couch) and although I did grade the reading and spelling papers that belong to my teammate's homeroom kids, I could not bring myself to helping out myself.

       They were due by 3:30 yesterday afternoon.  Around 2:15, I called my principal. (Sometimes it's easier to tuck your tail between your legs via the phone than in person.)

        "Can I drop off my progress reports  at your house sometime this weekend?"

       My principal, who knows I am definitely not a slacker, told me to not worry; she is allowing me to bring them in on Monday.



photo by jaaaanet


       Earlier in the week, I found out I had missed out on a deadline.  Saturday Writers (in St. Peters, Missouri) had a holiday short story contest. I don't have many holiday tales up my sleeve, but I did have one that has been gathering dust.  I thought I had until the end of the month, but looked again and saw the deadline was November 15.  Oh well, another screw up...

       This morning I read the Saturday Writers newsletter and saw that---thank goodness---the deadline had been extended to November 26.  So, back to the revising table so I can send it off next week.

        What "gifts" have dropped into your lap recently?   (After all, Thanksgiving is right around the corner.  It's time to give thanks for even the little things...)

          

  

Growing Older

photo by Missy13d69

           Certainly it would be nice to be younger.  Not twenty-something-and-still-stupid young, but being transported back to my thirties might be nice.  The thirties...years when my metabolism was still alive and breathing...

           However, being the age I am (I tell my students I'm in my 70's and they believe me; that either indicates how trusting they are, or it indicates what I truly look like), I now am more aware of what is important and what is not.  I'm more comfortable with myself and have accepted what I have morphed into over the years.

          I just read Tammy Goodsell's blog on the advantages of old age.  Some will make you chuckle (as you nod uh-huh) and some will make you become introspective. Check out her post from Thursday, November 18.

         And how about sharing (with her or me or, preferably, both) what is the #1 advantage to growing older, in your opinion?

A "Fictional" Story

          The two teachers plotted together...The older, gray-haired one took the lead, and insisted, days in advance, that they were not going to stay after the musical performance to take down the decorations that had been scotch-taped all over the walls and the base of the stage.  The two of them were going to race out as soon as the performance was over. The grizzled-one's rationale:

• This is the music teacher's "event" and he/she does not support events sponsored by other teachers. It is bad enough that all the teachers are "guilted" into attending and supervising, but taking extra time to painstakingly pull off bits of tape, trying to avoid tearing at construction paper decorations...That was too much.
• The traffic is horrendous, with everyone trying to get out of the crowded parking lot at the same time.  Leaving ahead of the surge of people would result in a quick exit.
• The music teacher goes out of their way to ensure that the music is not culturally relevant to the kids, making sure that as much rhythm and fun are squeezed out of the program/song choice.  Why go out of the way when an educator feels the road to respect is only a one-way street?
• It was already a late night.  Her contacts had already been in too long...
• It was Glee night.  (No hope in getting home in time to watch it. That was just a huge source of surliness.)

        The wrinkled and haggard one kept an eye on the program, counting off the songs.  As the two teachers stood behind the risers, giving evil looks to off-task kids when they clowned instead of sang, the old one saw that the younger one did not have her coat with her. 

"Where is your coat?" she hissed.  Their plot would fail if one of them had to go searching amongst the audience for a coat.  Almost certainly, a parent or colleague would stop them to talk and then... The two of them would just have to cut their losses and leave the coat behind...

       The apprentice in espionage smiled, and nodded to a spot on the floor next to her.  There was her coat. Ready to grab as they escaped.

          As the program ended and the two teachers escorted their students off the stage, they hurtled up the aisle, and out the door.  As the gray one shoved open the auditorium door and raced down the hall, she turned to look back.  No sight of the young one. She was torn between leaving her there, stranded, and waiting for her.  But there was no need to worry. A moment later, the perky one emerged, and together they ran to their cars, laughing.

photo by bradleygee

           They were the first cars out of the lot.  But they didn't feel guilty, because they are usually the first ones on the lot in the morning. And on many Saturdays and/or Sundays, their cars are the only ones in the teachers' lot...