Slice of Life: I should close my computer on Friday nights

 It's Tuesday, and Tuesdays are for slicing.  Anyone is welcome to join us through Two Writing Teachers, slicing, sharing, and commenting on other slices! 

  

I resisted the urge to make plans on Friday night, and instead, Garth and I had a peaceful dinner and watched some sports at home. All was calm, all was bright until I pulled out my computer, and, like a moth to a flame, started heading into articles and ideas around the controversies surrounding reading instruction. 

One good reference led to another. Before I could engage in the athletic competition on the bigger screen, my head was spinning with claims and statistics, predictions and demands. I read and started wondering about when attacks would begin to focus on writing, as opposed to reading. Sure enough, there was plenty to read about the science of writing, although I'm not sure what research the ideas came from. And then... one particular article caught my attention. The End of High-School English in the Atlantic. (Has anyone read it yet?)

I read parts of it out loud to my husband, and he may or may not have paid more attention to the announcers than to me. 

"Garth," I said. "Listen to this: they're comparing this new program to be like the printing press and the light bulb having a baby."

He responded, maybe a little. 

"I'll be obsolete before I'm vested," I said. 

He responded, maybe a little more. Soccer's a big deal in our house, and the World Cup was in full gear. I closed the computer. I needed my Friday night to calm back down! 

In the morning, I woke up to a colleague's text, with the Atlantic article linked. 

"Life-changing," my colleague wrote. "I'm using it all the time for my dissertation."

What? 

I don't have a great ending for this slice since I'm fascinated to watch where all this is heading, but in the meantime, maybe I should brush up on other skills as my career heads into the realm of the demise of factory workers.

Slice of Life- Charlottesville

   It's Tuesday, and Tuesdays are for slicing.  Anyone is welcome to join us through Two Writing Teachers, slicing, sharing, and commenting on other slices! 

Like a moth to a flame, the devastation in Charlottesville keeps pulling me in. Maybe it's because a dear friend lives and works in Charlottesville as an administrator of an elementary school. In her text to me this morning, she shared the type of writing she's doing these days: an email to families detailing how they will support young children whose school was closed yesterday while police hunted down a college student who murdered three other college students after a university-run field trip.  Maybe it's because one of my daughters went to UVA for her first year of college and the area is so familiar to me. I have walked along Culbreth Road, and I can envision the dorms, libraries, and houses where students sheltered in place. Maybe it's even because I wrote a post about my adventure skeet shooting and I worry that my participation supports the gun industry, (although I was in Ireland where citizens don't murder other citizens the way rampages repeat themselves in this country.)  And maybe it's because the anniversary of Sandy Hook looms and a memorial has recently been unveiled and I can't believe the amount of gun violence that exists in this country. Over and over and over again. 

I don't have answers. Connecticut has tough gun control laws, and a man murdered two police officers a few weeks ago, ambushing them with an assault rifle after calling 911. Chris Murphy, our state senator, has been a vocal and passionate voice in Washington about gun control, but far too many people who should not have guns have guns, including, it would seem, college students on field trips. College students on field trips. 

This morning, my thoughts are consumed by the Charlottesville people I know and the places I can picture. 

Slice of Life: Lessons on and from the range

    It's Tuesday, and Tuesdays are for slicing.  Anyone is welcome to join us through Two Writing Teachers, slicing, sharing, and commenting on other slices! 

Over the weekend, I went skeet shooting for the first time. Until Saturday afternoon, I had never held a gun, much less shoot one, and I had no vision of what a clay pigeon even looked like. Somehow, despite having watched movies or shows where people are shooting them. I envisioned clay twitter-like birds. I was surprised that a clay pigeon resembled a drink coaster much more than a bird, and my surprise got a few laughs. 

"You really are new at this," the instructor said. 

"Yep," I said. 

The other three women were in a similar boat although no one else admitted to a false conception of a clay pigeon, so we had a lengthy explanation of how to shoot a gun. Bernerd made it look pretty easy when he yelled, "Pull", held the gun up, waited exactly the right number of seconds and shot the flying disc. 

"You've got to go after it," he said in a strong Irish brogue. "You want to pull the trigger right when it's the highest."

Pull the trigger right at the highest point. I locked in the tip. As well as how to release the safety catch, snuggle the end into my shoulder, decide whether to close my left eye or not, lean forward on my left leg, and relax my hand and finger. Oh, and say pull when I was ready. 

Somehow, I didn't register the importance of the little ball at the end of the rifle. In movies, I've seen people look through a rifle at a target of some sort that looked like a T. This rifle had nothing like that. Instead, you were supposed to use the ball as your marker. Maybe this makes sense to readers who have experience with skeet shooting. 

"You're high," Bernerd said. 

"You're left," he said. 

"You're low," he said. "You've got to line it up with the ball." 

The ball? 

I watched and listened to the others as they took their turns. Alex was pretty good at it, and she hit the disk a couple times in a row. 

"Yes," Bernerd said. "You see how the ball covers the disk. That's when you shoot."

I still didn't see what he meant on my next turn, but I managed to shoot down a couple of "pigeons", more out of luck than skill. A broken clock is wrong twice a day. 

Finally, on my last turn, I yelled pull, and I realized there was a split second when the disk was blocked by the little ball at the end. At that split second, I pulled the trigger, and guess what. The disk broke apart. 

"Yes!" Bernerd said. "Do it again!"

I yelled pull, watched for the little ball to cover the disk, and bam! The disk in front of us broke apart. 

I missed one of the next three shots, but not by much, and even I was a little impressed with my aim.

It's amazing how easy a seemingly difficult task can become with the right aha moment at the right time. 

Slice of Life: Thoughts of Zingers and Kindness

   It's Tuesday, and Tuesdays are for slicing.  Anyone is welcome to join us through Two Writing Teachers, slicing, sharing, and commenting on other slices! 

For four seasons, I was a college soccer mom. I think I made pumpkin cake for every game but one, and my fall weekends were structured around the geography and timing of the games. 

Although Julia, our graduated soccer player, could not make the home opener, Garth and I headed there to cheer. For the most part, people were happy to see us, even though I did not show up with pumpkin cake. (I did offer the recipe to anyone who wanted it, but didn't get any takers.) Despite all of the welcoming howdys and how-are-yous, the what-are-you-doing-heres were the stickier comments. 

Haven't you spent enough years here? one parent asked. 

I stared at him until he seemed a couple inches shorter before responding that it was good to see him, as well. (He apologized.)

But the zinger was from one of Julia's good friend's mom. When someone behind me wanted to know who another team was playing, I knew the answer, and I stated it. 

You need to get a life beyond NESCAC soccer, she said. 

That comment has stayed with me, even though I KNOW I have a lot of life beyond NESCAC soccer. I still check scores and know who the weekly players of the week are, but I've done it almost surreptitiously and self-consciously,  feeling that maybe I'm not developing my own life enough. (Even though I know I am.)

This past weekend, we headed to the game, this time with Julia who is home for a week. Again, people were welcoming and, although it's weird to be involved but not involved, we were excited to be there. 

This time, the same aforementioned mom pulled me aside to say how much they miss Julia. And she asked about my books. And my blog. And my podcast....

And yet-- that zinger from several weeks ago stays sharp in my mind, and I wonder about the students I touch both literally and figuratively. Why am I so much more attuned to the hurtful comments that come my way that I am to the encouraging ones and kindness? I don't think I'm alone in this tendency. 

Happy Slicing,

Slice of Life: One of Those Days

 

   It's Tuesday, and Tuesdays are for slicing.  Anyone is welcome to join us through Two Writing Teachers, slicing, sharing, and commenting on other slices! 

It had been one of those mornings. A meeting ran over, and I was late to the next one. The end result of both meetings (that I'd done a lot of work for) was... more work. Emails had come in with requests and scheduling issues I was trying to figure out, and sleep had been at a premium the night before--- somehow, my mind wasn't having it when it came to shutting down. 

One of those days.

Taking on the role of self-consoler and personal cheerleader, I decided to give myself ten minutes and six dollars and head to the local coffee shop for an unusual early afternoon cup of coffee. A vanilla latte from a master barista would turn the day around or at least spike the energy level to plow through the reports and agendas that were on my desk. 

The barista was lovely. She smiled as she handed the coffee over to me, and I savored the smell. Along the mile-long drive back to school, I resisted that first sip, not wanting to burn my tongue, proud of myself for thinking of this. However, the tree work right in front of the school held me up, and my resistance wavered.

I took that sip. 

And that barista, that cute, smiling, proud-of-her-product barista must not have put the top on quite right. That coffee did not dribble. It waterfalled all over my white shirt. 

Yep. Fortunately for me, I live close to the school, and I had a clean white shirt in my closet ready to wear. Fortunately for me, I'd waited to sip until the coffee cooled off a bit. And fortunately for my family, I even had the presence of mind to take a picture, so we all had a laugh. 

One of those days. 

Happy slicing,

Slice of Life: There's Bravery Behind Those Cowboy Boots

 

 

        It's Tuesday, and Tuesdays are for slicing.  Anyone is welcome to join us through Two Writing Teachers, slicing, sharing, and commenting on other slices! 

Many years ago during a professional development session, a colleague and I were directed to determine the qualities and personality traits of the tree in the Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein. I remember how T. described the tree as brave. It takes courage to give gifts. That was the year before I chose present as my one little word. Since one of the meanings of present is synonymous with gift, I had recently been all too aware of how much thought and yes, courage, went into choosing gifts for others, watching them open them, and hoping they'd like them. 

One of my daughter's birthday is tomorrow, and I have yet to decide on her gift. I have a little leeway since I won't see her until Friday, but my mother is way ahead of me. 

"Have you heard from Clare?" she asked me yesterday. "Did she get my package?"

"Your package?" I echoed.

""I sent her cowboy boots," my mom said. 

Cowboy boots? My mother sent my daughter cowboy boots??? What?  I've been coveting cowboy boots! Somehow both pairs I had during my college days are nowhere to be found, although many other less desirable items keep showing up in unopened boxes.

"Mom," I said, "that is awesome."

"I texted the other girls," she said. "They filled me in. And then I ordered them and sent them."

I can't wait to hear Clare's response, and I also can't wait to give my mom a hug. What a generous gift. 

And what a brave act!

Happy Slicing,

Slice of Life: A Short Slice About the Different Perspectives on a Rainy Day

 

     It's Tuesday, and Tuesdays are for slicing.  Anyone is welcome to join us through Two Writing Teachers, slicing, sharing, and commenting on other slices! 

As with so many things in life, there are a lot of different perspectives on rain. I'm sure that my mother is doing whatever happy dance she can muster first thing in the morning since her pots and plants have been wilting since July. The superintendent at the local golf course is probably nodding his appreciation as well. The last time I saw him I was thrilled that the weatherman had been wrong about the rainy forecast since it meant I could play... him? Not so much. 

For many of my colleagues, rainy days mean indoor recess, and I'm packing a couple of games to share later this morning if students are stuck. 

My lab could care less. The rain runs off him the way it does on a mallard's back. But my littler dog Winnie will resist going out for the day, disliking all aspects of a rainy day and much preferring any and all cushioned spots in the house.  

Happy Slicing,

Melanie

Slice of Life: the Value of an Asset-Based Approach

    It's Tuesday, and Tuesdays are for slicing.  Anyone is welcome to join us through Two Writing Teachers, slicing, sharing, and commenting on other slices! 

 

For the first time since the summer of 2019, our live and in-person Summer Writing Academy is up and running, and we have almost fifty young writers showing up each morning. Throughout the spring, the teachers and the brochures are clear; this program is for students who love writing. This year, we seem to have a few who might not be such writing fans. 

"G. and M. don't write," their summer teacher reported to me after the first day. She went on to tell me about all the other things G. and M. do that are disruptive, disrespectful, and disgruntling. 

The summer's writing theme is centered on fantasy, and G. and A are obsessed with the Warriors series. 

"All they want to do is write cat books," the teacher reports. "They're just recreating the Warriors stories."

I took the girls for the first hour of the second day. I had initially planned only a half hour, but their time got extended. I spent the first ten minutes or so talking to them about what their stories could be. What different characters they could invent. What new world they could create. What original conflicts their cats could face. 

These girls weren't budging from their ideas. They had their own vision and language. Try as I might, they were sticking to it. 

So I let them. I sat back and did some relatively mindless work that kept my eyes on my computer and my ears on their conversation. 

They talked about the traits of their characters. 

They asked each other about the setting and if it was clear enough. 

They made up and agreed on friends for their cats. 

They debated whether the cats could have an authentic battle with fish. 

And they wrote. 

A lot. 

And they beamed when I commented on their storytelling abilities and their potential to become the next great series writers. 

And they listened to and incorporated a couple of suggestions I offered. 

At the end of the day when we all debriefed, the teacher again expressed her frustration with the girls' obsession with cats. 

"But what CAN they do?" I asked. 

I went on to point out the value of their writing, even if they were operating within the scaffold of someone else's storyline. They were still drafting-- developing dialogue, creating scenes, and wrestling with the balance of details. 

She nodded, and maybe she appreciated them a little more. We'll see how tomorrow goes...

Happy slicing, 

Melanie

Slice of Life: The Lessons of Silence

   It's Tuesday, and Tuesdays are for slicing.  Anyone is welcome to join us through Two Writing Teachers, slicing, sharing, and commenting on other slices! 

 

For weeks, I've both dreaded and looked forward to the Writing Institute from Teachers College Reading and Writing Institute. Four days of 7 hour zoom sessions is a lot. Today was Day 1. At the opening welcome, Lucy Caulkins greeted all of the participants, and part of her challenge was to think of a story from our own lives, one that happened to us, one that was maybe bad. Tell the story across our fingers. Make it better by thinking about the weather and incorporating details about the weather as we told it. 

Later in the day, our session leader asked us to revisit the same story. Do some oral rehearsal, envision it, use a video she shared as a mentor. Tell the story out loud in a breakout room to people we'd met that morning. 

In the breakout room, I listened to the other participant's stories. I commented. I let them know that I was glad and relieved they were okay. And then I shared my own story. 

My story wasn't one I'd written ever before, and it was more emotional for me than maybe the other participants--or even myself-- realized. Raw with the proximity of Father's Day and acutely aware of my own father's absence, I shared the story of our ill-fated sailing adventure together. I wove in the details of the weather, and I dug into the emotions of the day when our boat tipped, and I as a seven year-old, was scared beyond the point of rational behavior. My oral rendition had emotion, elaboration, and a greater meaning than the importance of swimming underwater even when a life jacket prevents you from doing that. But when I finished, the other two people in the breakout room said nothing. 

Nothing. 

Not one thing. 

Not a comment of wow, our stories were similar. (They were.) Not a comment of wow, I'm sorry about your dad. Not a comment of wow, you tried out some craft moves and I noticed them... 

Nothing. 

A silent breakout room. 

I like the story I told, and I may even write it down. I may work on it and polish it and revise it and share it again with people I trust and respect as writers. 

I also appreciate the realization I had, not for the first time, probably not even for the hundredth time, that writers thrive on reactions and feedback. I so wanted them to say something-- anything-- about some element of my story, be it the content, the craft, the potential next steps... anything! 

Sometimes, I learn the most from silence. 

Slice of Life: Finding the Joy in the Waves

    It's Tuesday, and Tuesdays are for slicing.  Anyone is welcome to join us through Two Writing Teachers, slicing, sharing, and commenting on other slices! 

 

As is the case for many people, I find peace and joy when I walk on the beach. Last week, my daughter and I took a fairly spontaneous trip to South Carolina to visit my aunt and uncle. After dinner and thunderstorms, but before sunset, the four of us headed to the ocean. Low tide meant easy walking and the possibility for finding shells. 

As we walked, we admired some of the day's sand castles that the rain had spared, we filled in holes that could lead to twisted ankles, and they pointed out the various residences. More than anything else, we watched families. 

One little girl had recently turned two. Her mother shared that last year she had been scared of the waves, but that was not the case this year. We cheered along with her as she tried to keep her footing when waves rolled in and then pulled away. More often than not, she landed in the receding water, laughing out loud as it rolled her around, sometimes sideways from her belly to her back. Watchful parents and grandparents were always at the ready to scoop her up before she kicked and pushed her way into the pathway of the next wave. 

Even though I love the ages of my children, and, if truth be told, I found the toddler ages to be the most challenging, I watched the interactions with nostalgia. Her joy in the moment lit up her family, as well as onlookers. This little girls had no worries about homework, relationships, work responsibilities, money, health, social media-- only the discomfort of sand in her clothing which she eliminated by stripping down in between waves. What a beautiful thing to laugh until you can't stand straight because of the power of gentle waves. 

As I reflect, my goal for the summer will be to find the joy in waves this summer. I can't wait for the New England water to get warm enough for some wave-riding laughter. 

Happy slicing, 

Slice of Life: Improper Planning Leads to Better Performance

    It's Tuesday, and Tuesdays are for slicing.  Anyone is welcome to join us through Two Writing Teachers, slicing, sharing, and commenting on other slices! 

As Julia and I headed for a much needed shower, we tasked Garth with finding a place for dinner. The requirements? They could take us soon and they could provide us with some substantial nourishment and a cold beer. Maybe even two of them. It had been a long day of driving, cleaning, and moving Julia into an apartment. 

"So where are we going?" I asked as I combed my hair out as quickly as I could. 

Garth showed me the menu, and it looked great. Almost anything would. 

"Is it close?" Julia asked, slipping her feet into her shoes. 

"Five minutes."

In about ten minutes, we pulled into what looked like a cute Italian restaurant. There were tables outside, and it was cool enough to enjoy an outdoor meal. As I surveyed the group of four sitting near the door, I wished I had a fork. They had way more food than they could possibly eat, and it all looked divine. Then I noticed the four open bottles of wine and the coolers that accompanied them. Uh oh. 

"Is this BYOB?" I asked the waitress. 

She nodded.

"So you don't serve anything?" I said, my vision of a cold IPA dissipating. 

We did a quick search of any establishment nearby that might sell beer or wine, and nothing was too close. 

"You'll be fine, Mom," Julia said. 

"True," I said. Who needs a beer after a hard day of moving into an apartment with the previous tenant's stuff still all there. Not me. 

"Let me see what we have in the cooler," the hostess, who was one of the cutest people ever, said. "Sometimes you get lucky."

I wasn't sure what she meant, and I settled into my healthier option of water with lemon. A few minutes later, she came back to the table with three mostly finished bottles of wine, and proudly poured me a glass of chardonnay. "It's on the house," she said, "since we don't have a liquor license."

Dinner was great, my half a glass of wine was perfect, water was healthier, and the bill was a lot less than anticipated! All was good, and the next morning I was much readier to go than I might have otherwise been. 

Slice of Life: I have SO much gratitude for strangers!

    It's Tuesday, and Tuesdays are for slicing.  Anyone is welcome to join us through Two Writing Teachers, slicing, sharing, and commenting on other slices! 

In many ways, this slice is gong to read as a affirmation in the goodness of people in the world. I know there are lots of stories that would contradict this, but my daughter Clare has had back to back weekends of testing the goodness of humanity and coming out way in the green. 

Last weekend, she went hiking in northern Maine with her sister and friends. Because everyone except Clare was headed back to Boston and Clare had to get to Manhattan, I offered to subsidize a one-way plane ticket from Portland to LaGuardia. What a great idea it seemed like until the fog rolled in an hour before take off time. Clare settled into the Celtics game at the airport bar, making friends with other people who were watching their flights get delayed and then canceled, and we went through a variety of options to get her back to Hell's Kitchen. Each option fell apart for various reasons. In the end, Chris and Mary, her new friends with a daughter in college in Maine, rented a car. Since they were headed for Tribeca, they dropped Clare off at her apartment after a 5 1/2 hour ride together. I loved that Chris had Clare send me a picture of his driver's license. Is this in case you disappear? I texted. Precisely, Clare responded. Clare now has two more members of her fan club who live across town from her, and they have a card of gratitude and a gift on the way to them. 

This past weekend, Clare tapped into the kindness of strangers once again. In the excitement of going out with her friends, she left her phone on the NYC train. The phone with her license, credit cards, and debit card all in it. She called me in a panic, apologetic and teary. Don't cry for something that can't cry for you, my husband and I repeated to her, working hard to calm her down and convince her that even if she didn't get the phone back, it was all replaceable. We put a stop on all the cards and plotted how we'd get her a new license. We figured that the Apple or AT and T stores in the city would be happy to cash in on a kid who needed a new phone the next morning, and we'd see how much it would cost. 

(Have you noticed that no one thought to call the phone????)

In the morning, my friend suggested looking at Find My iPhone. Duh. Of course, we should do that! The phone was in Long Island and seemed to be staying in one place. I put it in lost mode, and was prompted to enter a phone number to call if found. Guess what? My phone rang within a couple of minutes. Hello?!?!  said a man's voice. He told about finding the phone and waiting for someone to call it. He was so happy to finally know he'd get it to the owner. One of Clare's friends lives not far from where Otto was working and she picked up the phone, sent it to the city with her roommate, and Clare's phone and credit cards were back in her hands in time to get dinner. 

I'd like Clare to take a weekend or two off of counting on strangers for rides and returns, but her experiences have restored any lagging faith in humanity. How incredibly grateful I am to a few people I will probably never meet. Maybe this post will inspire anyone who reads it to keep the kindness chain going, as it really saved a girl I love! 

Slice of Life: Adding skills to a foundation of Swiss cheese

    It's Tuesday, and Tuesdays are for slicing.  Anyone is welcome to join us through Two Writing Teachers, slicing, sharing, and commenting on other slices! 

My youngest daughter Cecily is home, having completed her freshmen year of college, and she is on the teacher prep highway. Until her camp counselor work begins, she is working as a sub in the schools, and she made me chuckle today when I came home. 

"I had to support kids in math today," she said when I walked in. 

My silence kept her going. The truth was I is I'm fascinated to watch Cecily become a math teacher, assuming that she heads toward elementary education. Math has always challenged her, and she's had a lot of experience with tutoring, alternative strategies, and filling in the Swiss cheese-like gaps of her math understandings. 

"The kids were all working on adding fractions with unlike denominators," she continued. 

I'm not sure when Cecily mastered fraction addition that involves renaming them, but I'm sure it was not in elementary school. 

I winced, and I stayed silent, knowing that she had more to say. 

"I don't understand how they can teach these kids how to add fractions with unlike denominators when they don't understand how to convert them from mixed numbers to improper fractions," she said. 

I nodded. I'm pretty sure that my older daughter who works for a dermatologist would have told me to unwrinkle my forehead or I'd need more Botox. 

"They're teaching kids skills they aren't ready for. That's what happened to me, and it took forever to understand it because I kept trying to learn new things when I didn't have the things I needed to learn them figured out..." Cecily was on a roll. 

Amazing what my daughter who is just shy of 20 understands about learning and foundational skills... Who knows if she will stay the course for teaching, but I think she'd be a really good one. 

Slice of Life: A (sort-of) validating email

   It's Tuesday, and Tuesdays are for slicing.  Anyone is welcome to join us through Two Writing Teachers, slicing, sharing, and commenting on other slices! 

For those of you who missed last week's post, it's been a long week of living through Covid. Headache? Yes. Sore throat? Yes. Lethargy? Big time. And the brain fog? I've had SO much time and I've gotten SO little done. 

What was so for me, and for others I've talked to, is that I don't believe it, or I don't want to believe it. Yes, last Tuesday morning, I felt like the cold that had been brewing since Tuesday night was getting worse, not better. And when the person I'd had dinner with on Friday night texted that she'd tested positive after the SAME TIMING, I still was in denial that a second line would show up. (It did.)

The true validation happened when this email showed up in my mailbox from the restaurant where we'd been. 

None of us were happy to get this email, but there are so many mysteries about Covid and where people have gotten it that it almost felt like a resolution; since three out of the four of us having dinner came down with it at the same time, I don't think we were the super-spreaders. That being said, it does make me wonder about how to stay safe and what is and isn't okay to do! Moral of the story for me: Stick with eating outside. 

Slice of Life- The Weekend Was Great...

   It's Tuesday, and Tuesdays are for slicing.  Anyone is welcome to join us through Two Writing Teachers, slicing, sharing, and commenting on other slices! 

What a great dinner out with friends on Friday night. And a great day on Saturday catching a friend's track meet after spending time with my mom as she recuperates from her hip surgery. 

And a nice day on Sunday playing a round of golf and picking up some basil and parsley to plant before an afternoon excursion with two of my girls. 

Maybe a developing cough should have worried me more late Sunday afternoon...

And now I'm ready for some binging recommendations and have no excuse for not slicing since I'm stuck at home for several days having experienced the dreaded double line. 

Writing will be on the agenda! Open to other suggestions!